


Twenty-Seven Days

by PapayaK



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23005216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PapayaK/pseuds/PapayaK
Summary: A story of revenge. And Shawn gets whumped. And if you've read any of my stuff, you know I like to whump pretty hard. But don't worry, everyone is always okay at the end (unless I tell you ahead of time). Rated T for Whump.  Special thanks to my Beta, Dinerguy.  She's awesome!  You should check out her work.  She's a much better writer than I.  I don't own Psych.  Not making any money off this.
Comments: 42
Kudos: 112





	1. Lost

oO0Oo  
 **Twenty-Seven Days**  
oO0Oo

Waking up, the first thing Shawn realized was that he was in pain.

Everything hurt.

He was alone, he was lying on the floor, and there was no part of him that didn’t hurt. From his little pinkie toe to his left eyebrow, everything ached. What didn’t ache was throbbing. What wasn't throbbing was pounding; what wasn’t pounding…

He bit his tongue to make himself stop, which he belatedly realized was stupid. He hadn’t even been speaking out loud.

Great. Now his tongue hurt. Where was Gus when you needed him?

Where was Gus?

Where was _he?_

He felt like one of the rocks he’d put through the rock tumbler his grandpa had given him for his ninth birthday. He’d thought it was so cool. Of course, he and Gus had collected smooth rocks on the beach for as long as he could remember, but now _he_ could do it; _he_ could make them smooth. He felt as powerful as the ocean, and he…

Uh oh.

If he was drifting off topic _that_ badly, he probably had a concussion.

Time to assess. What had happened to him? Where was he? Where was Gus? How did he get here—wherever _here_ was? Who had done this to him? _What was going on?_

Ignoring his pain for the moment, he reached out with his senses one at a time.

Sight: The room was dark. Simple enough. But not completely dark. He could make out some shapes, so there had to be some light coming from somewhere… um... above him. Okay a little bit of light coming from above him. Good enough for now.

Smell: Earthy. Damp. Was he underground? He needed more on that point.

Taste: Nope. Not licking anything. Not that desperate… yet.

Touch. He was lying on something not exactly hard but not soft either. He’d have to move his hands. That was going to hurt. Moving as little as possible, he shifted his fingers to the floor under him: Dirt. Smooth, hard-packed dirt.

Okay, this was working. He was slowly building a picture of his surroundings, and focusing on something else was helping distract him from his pain.

Hearing: Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Silence so loud it made his ears ring. But that could change at any moment, so he resolved to keep listening.

Okay. Put it all together. Even a concussed Shawn-brain was better than most. Dark, earthy, damp, packed-dirt floor, silence.

_I'll take “cellar of an old house in a remote location” for $400, Alex._

He mentally patted himself on the back.

He thought about cellars. Cellars had stairs so people could get in and out. If he could get out, he’d know where he was.

Obviously.

Of course, that meant he’d have to move.

He tentatively took a deep breath. His chest hurt but not broken-ribs hurt, so that was a point in his favor.

He sat up. The room spun. He closed his eyes tightly and took more deep breaths until the walls and floor decided to take their usual places.

When he opened his eyes, he felt better.

He tried moving various body parts. He was relieved to find that, while he was definitely bruised and sore, nothing seemed to be broken or permanently damaged. He wasn’t bleeding. The concussion was probably the worst of his injuries. He touched the back of his head _very_ gently—OW!—and the area around the knot felt a little wet. Okay, bleeding a little but nothing life-threatening. He checked for his phone. Of course, it had been his first thought upon awakening, but, given the circumstances, he’d really doubted it would be there.

He was right.

Time to go exploring. His curiosity was now stronger than his pain, so he rolled onto his hands and knees.

So far, so good.

He sensed an obstacle next to him, so he reached out and felt a wooden beam that stretched vertically toward the ceiling. That was handy. He used it to pull himself to his feet.

His eyes were adjusting to the darkness. As he looked around, he could barely make out that the beam was attached to the stairs.

Awesome.

_Freedom, here I come._

He started up the old wooden stairs, careful to test each one for rot. As he ascended, the light became marginally brighter, so that explained the source of the light. Reaching the top, he found a locked door.

Under the circumstances, he probably should have been expecting that.

He explored it with his fingers. There was a knob, but no sign of a lock, not even a keyhole. And it was sturdy. He’d really been hoping for an old, half-rotten piece of plywood, but it felt really strong. Gus would probably say it was oak. And the hinges were on the outside. Of course.

As he turned away from the door, he saw a light switch. Ooh! Light would be a big improvement. He flipped the switch. Nothing happened. He felt around and realized the wires coming from behind the switch had been torn away.

He turned and plopped down on the top step and tried to accept the fact that he wouldn’t be getting out on his own any time soon.

Looking down the stairs, he suddenly realized where all his bruises had probably come from.

It was easy to imagine someone holding his unconscious form in the doorway at the top of the stairs and then just… letting go. (Ouch, ouch, _ouch_!) He shook his head to dismiss the image. (Bad idea with a concussion!)

The door was a bust, but maybe the cellar had another exit. Sometimes they did, those weird, slanted doors that they always use in the movies to escape a tornado. (He must have a pretty decent concussion if the idea took that long to occur to him.)

As he slowly made his way down the stairs and began to explore the rest of the room, he tried to remember what had happened to him. He could remember being at Psych with Gus. He remembered arguing about which 80s show to watch for their weekend marathon. He’d wanted to watch ‘The A-Team’ but Gus said they’d been watching too much action lately and he was more in the mood for ‘The Facts of Life.’ He had made such a compelling argument, that Shawn knew he was losing and decided to leave. He had been certain he could talk Gus into seeing things his way eventually.

And that was it. He'd grabbed his helmet, gone out to the Norton, and… woke up here.

He made one circuit of the cellar. He felt four very rough, very crumbly brick walls; sadly, no windows or doors. The staircase was about in the center of the room. There was a set of shelves against one wall, but the only thing on them was dust. Could be a source of a loose nail or splinter of wood though. He’d keep it in mind for future reference. He wasn’t that desperate… yet.

He did one more circuit, partly to make sure he hadn’t missed anything but mostly out of boredom.

There was nothing. Bare walls, bare shelves, bare floor, bare ceiling. The little bit of light he’d detected earlier was daylight coming in around the edges of the door at the top of the stairs. That was it.

Okay.

He shrugged. He didn't know who had put him here, but running through his old case files looking for potential suspects would give him something to do while he waited for his rescue.

He sat himself on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, crossed his ankles, and leaned against the wall. He smirked up at the door. All he had to do was wait for Lassie and Jules. He knew they’d be there any minute.

“Oh, Shawn!” he said in his ridiculous falsetto Jules-voice. “We were so worried about you! Ooh! You’re so brave!” And then he had to stop because he’d made himself chuckle.

Or maybe his dad or Gus would come bursting in and rescue him. That wasn’t quite as appealing as Jules, but he’d be more than happy to see them.

Either way, he knew it wouldn’t be long.

When he’d been shot, no one had any idea where he was, so it had taken them a few hours to find him. This was different. He’d been right outside Psych! Maybe Gus had even seen what had happened.

He waited.

He knew Gus would think he should be more concerned about his captor, but he doubted he’d be here long enough to be in any real danger.

They’d be here soon.

He ran through all his cases starting with the most recent and working backward.

When he had finished and his rescuers still hadn’t arrived, he ran through the cases alphabetically.

Finally, he gave up. He couldn’t think of anyone from his previous cases who would want this kind of revenge.

Next, he tried to think of _anyone_ who might hold some kind of grudge against him.

He looked up and noticed the light around the door was beginning to fade. As it disappeared, so did his smirk.

What was taking them so long? He’d been locked in this cellar for _hours_! He was starting to get hungry!

He chuckled to himself. “Well, they don’t have their favorite psychic to help them!” he said, his voice overly loud in the dead silence. His smirk returned. He still wasn’t worried.

A few more hours wouldn’t be too bad. He was sure they’d be there before the morning. And when they arrived, he’d guilt them into taking him out for dinner.

He waited.

Soon, his head began to nod, and, without even realizing it, he drifted off.


	2. Without a Trace

**oO0Oo**

Twenty-seven days.  
Almost a month.  
Shawn had been missing for twenty-seven _days_.

**oO0Oo  
Gus  
oO0Oo**

He’s dead. I know he’s dead. It’s been too long. I just… I just can’t accept it yet. I don’t know a life without Shawn. I can’t imagine it.

Every memory I have. _Every_ memory. Shawn. Complicating things. Making things worse. Getting me in trouble in a hundred different ways. Shawn.

Having my back. Making me better than I am. Being the only person I can say anything to. And I mean _anything._

My best friend.

My _only_ friend on more occasions than I care to admit.

My brother.

Infuriating. Irresponsible. Annoying.

Loyal. Smart. Brave (usually). True…

The truest friend anyone could ever ask for. Most people never get a true friend, but I did. And now he’s gone.

He died that night. I’ll never stop looking for him, but sometimes I’m sure he’s dead. I just can’t say anything. I mean it’s pretty much my fault. I was arguing with him, and then I let him go out and get killed, and I never even looked out a window.

How do I tell anyone that? How do I tell Mr. Spencer?

It’s my fault Shawn’s dead.

How do I go on without him? How do I continue alone?

I have no idea. I don’t know if I can.

But there’s a chance.

Even after all this time, there’s a chance he’s alive.

The main reason I haven’t said anything is because Shawn wouldn’t. If our positions were reversed and I was the one missing, Shawn would never give up—never stop looking.

I can’t imagine it—being held prisoner for all this time… What that kind of captivity would do to Shawn... I hope he has something to do, some way to pass the time, some way to stay sane.

Honestly, it almost feels selfish. I want so badly to find him alive. But that’s for me. For Shawn’s sake, I almost hope he died that first night.

I can’t even imagine what the past month has done to him.

If we find him…

Will he still be Shawn?

oO0Oo   
**The Night of the Capture**  
oO0Oo

When Gus finally finished his paperwork, it was late. Shawn had left hours ago. They should have been working on those forms together, but at least this way Gus knew they’d be correct, and he was comforted by the fact that he’d won the argument with Shawn. ‘The Facts of Life’ was a much better option for their weekend marathon than ‘The A-Team.’ 

He frowned when he stepped outside to see the Norton still parked where Shawn had left it but didn’t think much of it. Shawn was always off doing something crazy. He had probably come outside and been hit with a “brilliant” idea that he just had to do right away—or seen a pretty girl—or decided to go for a long walk in the middle of the night—who knew?

Gus had a sinking feeling his buddy had figured out a way to win their argument after the fact. He usually did. He probably _wanted_ Gus to worry about him.

_Not this time!_ Gus shook his head and went home.

oO0Oo  
 **The Next Morning**  
oO0Oo

In the morning, Henry unplugged his phone and saw he’d gotten a text from Shawn late the night before. He must have slept through the alert. He opened it thinking that either Shawn was in desperate need of help or he’d thought of some joke that was so hilarious it couldn’t wait until morning. It was a toss-up.

When he read the text, Henry's blood ran cold.

_“I’ve got your son. You will never see him again. I will keep him for twenty-seven days, and then I will kill him. There is nothing you can do about it. You deserve this.”_

oO0Oo

Over the course of the next three weeks, the SBPD, Henry, and Gus investigated every possible lead—and a few impossible ones.

More than once, someone commented, “The person we need working on this is Shawn.”

The text had come from Shawn’s phone, but it must have been destroyed immediately afterward. There was no lead there.

Gus remembered the argument that night. Satisfied that he’d convinced Shawn to watch ‘The Facts of Life’ instead of ‘The A-Team’ he’d turned back to his paperwork the moment Shawn had left. He hadn’t seen or heard a thing, and, for that, he would never forgive himself.

They scoured the outside of Psych. Shawn had disappeared somewhere between the front door and his bike. There was no sign of a struggle. The only clue they found was a single drop of dried blood on the sidewalk just outside the front door. They confirmed it was Shawn’s.

There was nothing on any security cameras in the area. The only one that had been pointed anywhere near the front of Psych looked as if it had been hit with a baseball bat. They checked every camera within a mile radius. Several showed vehicles driving away from Psych. All discernable license plates, even partials, were checked, both electronically and in person. Nothing.

Due to the late hour, there were no witnesses.

There was obviously some significance to the number twenty-seven, but no one knew what it was.

There was obviously some significance to Henry since the text had been directed at him— _“you deserve this”—_ but no one, not even Henry, could find any connection. No amount of scouring old files had turned up a single clue.

oO0Oo  
 **Day Seven**  
oO0Oo

Sadly, since it was impossible for the head detective and his partner to focus only on one case, Lassiter and O’Hara had been forced to divide their attention.

It hadn’t been long before Gus had been given the ultimatum of, “Get back to work or lose your job.”

Of course, Henry never stopped and rarely slept, but he was only one man.

oO0Oo  
 **Henry  
** oO0Oo

Shawn.

Aw, Kid.

What did you get yourself into this time?

Where are you? I taught you everything you need to know to escape from every possible scenario.

So why haven’t you?

The answer to that question terrifies me... Keeps me up at night… Provides fuel for nightmare after nightmare…

What are they doing to you?

Are we too late?

_Where are you?_

oO0Oo  
 **Day Sixteen**  
oO0Oo

Henry was just about at the end of his rope. Exhausted, he had dragged himself into the station, but he didn't really know why.

Karen stood in her office and watched him through the window. Shawn’s disappearance had cast a gloom over her entire station. She had never really stopped to think about how much his presence meant to so many people. Personally, she had come to really like him. She was worried about him. But she hadn’t fully grasped how much he meant to everyone else. She didn’t think there was a single person here he hadn’t interacted with—who wasn’t worried about him. As immature and silly as he and Gus could be, he brought a certain lightness to an otherwise serious line of work. It felt as if the entire building missed him.

Poor Gus. He hadn’t been to the station at all in nearly a week. He’d stopped by daily at first—constantly, desperately looking for ways to help with the investigation. Then he’d taken to showing up and just waiting around. Finally, he became like a ghost of his former self, moving mechanically, sitting and staring for hours. Finally, he just stopped showing up. Karen resolved to make sure she checked on him at her first opportunity.

Now, looking out at Shawn’s father, who sat at his desk, clearly on the verge of despair, she knew she had to do something. She went out and sat across from him.

“How’re you holding up?” she asked gently.

He just looked at her for a moment before telling her, “I called his mother this morning.” Then he fell silent.

“How’d she take it?”

“She asked me what the odds are... that he’s still alive…” He cleared his throat.

“Henry,” Karen chided gently. “We have no reason to think he’s not still alive.”

Henry just shook his head, not meeting her eyes.

Karen waited quietly.

He continued, “Every night, when I go to bed, I wonder if he has a place to sleep. Every time I eat, I wonder if he’s being fed. I happened to stub my toe last night, and all I could think about was what kind of pain he might be in…”

Trying to stop Henry's spiral, Karen interrupted, “Have there been _any_ new leads?” She knew there hadn’t been.

He just looked at her, his expression bleak.

Karen knew it was time for the Chief to take the lead. She decided to turn one of his own, favorite techniques on the man who had once trained her. “Run me through it again.”

When he tilted his head and glared at her, she reminded him calmly, “This is how it works, Henry. Run through it again.”

Then Henry suddenly had to close his eyes as tears pricked at them. How many times had he done this same thing to Shawn?

Would he ever do it again?

“The text,” Henry replied, clearing his throat and getting down to business, “The text is really all we have.”

“Tell it to me again… slowly.”

“I’ve got your son…” he began. He slowly, deliberately recited from memory. He forced himself to consider every word, trying to do it as if he’d never seen them before. “You will never… _see_ … him again… I will keep… keep him for twenty-seven days… and then I will… I will kill him… There is nothing you can do about it… You deserve this,” he finished on a whisper.

“So?”

Henry shook his head, incredibly frustrated. “Karen, I have been through all my case files a hundred times! There is no reference to the number twenty-seven anywhere!”

“Okay, what else?” she asked patiently. She _knew_ there was nothing in his case files; she’d gone through them herself more than once. “There _has_ to be something else…”

“I deserve it,” he recited, his voice dead. “Lassiter, O’Hara, and I went through every perp I’ve ever put away—everyone who isn’t either dead or still inside. We checked. We verified alibis. We investigated every possible person.”

“Mmm, I’m not sure you did,” she said lightly. “What else?”

If Henry’s glare could have started a fire, Karen would have second-degree burns. She knew he wasn’t really angry at her, and he knew she was right, so he went over the text yet again.

“Nothing you can do…” he murmured. “Nothing you can do… You deserve this… deserve… Twenty-seven days… I will kill him… Son. I’ve got your son…” He frowned. “ _Son…_ ” he whispered. He thought hard. “Wait a minute…” Something was tickling at the very edges of memory… He frowned in concentration. _“Kill your son…”_

Then he shook his head and swore under his breath. Why couldn’t he remember?

But there was something. A tiny flame of hope was lit where, that morning, there had been none.

“Henry?” she asked, thinking he was on to something.

“Son… Twenty-seven days… There... _was... something…”_ And he turned and began to type on his computer, searching files.

“What is it?” she asked.

“There _was_ a case… someone I arrested… but I wasn’t even the lead on the case. I wasn’t even supposed to be there... I think… I think I was filling in for someone who was sick, or had a family emergency... so it wasn’t in my files, but... The perp’s son was somehow killed shortly after he got locked up… I can’t _remember!”_ he growled. “Was it twenty-seven days? I need…”

Karen realized he wasn’t really talking to her. He was on the verge of a breakthrough…

oO0Oo  
 **Day Seventeen**  
oO0Oo

_Finally!_

That day—after Shawn had been missing for well over two weeks—they _finally_ understood the _who._ Karl Frey was the name of the thief Henry had arrested.

Having his identity, they also figured out the _what_ and the _why_. They had been told the _when_. They would ask Shawn the _how_ when they found him.

Once again, all department resources were dedicated to this one missing persons case.

They checked with the original lead on the case, Bill Smith, or Smitty, as he was known around the station. He didn’t even remember the case until they showed him the file. It had been a straightforward case of theft. Frey had been easily convicted with the amount of proof they had gathered. Smitty hadn’t even been needed to testify.

They checked every location to which Frey had any connection: his home, his job, his usual hangouts, and there was nothing. They followed the money, scouring every transaction he had made. They searched his phone records. They thoroughly investigated every contact of his they could find. Everyone claimed they hadn’t seen him in weeks, and, try as they might, they couldn’t poke a hole in any of their stories. It was as if Frey had ceased to exist. No sign of him, and definitely no sign of Shawn.

They still couldn’t find the _where_.

Where _was Shawn?_

The momentum they gained that day quickly sputtered and died.

They couldn’t find Frey, and they had no idea where he might be holding Shawn.

Day twenty passed. Twenty-one. Twenty-two…

Time was running out.

Where was Shawn?

oO0Oo _  
_ **Lassiter  
** oO0Oo

I have wanted the stupid ‘psychic’ off my back and out of this station for so long…

But not like this.

Not like this.

No one is saying it—obviously—but there’s a very good chance he’s already dead. Why would anyone keep their prisoner alive when they’re only planning to kill them later? There’s no need for proof of life if there’s no ransom demand. If he keeps Spencer alive for twenty-seven days then he’s got an increased chance of escape, he has to give food and water to the guy, he has to put up with what I can only imagine is the most inane babble anyone on the planet has ever had the _immense_ misfortune to have to listen to…

I’m not sure _I’d_ keep him alive… Don’t tell anyone I thought that.

If he keeps Shawn alive, he gives us that much time to find him. But maybe that’s the point—maybe that’s part of Henry’s torture.

Underneath it all, I know Spencer’s a good guy. And I have had to accept—although not acknowledge—NEVER acknowledge—that he is an adequate detective. I will _never, ever_ believe he is actually psychic, so how does he do it? He astounds me.

How does he do it?

I will never know.

But I hope he gets to continue.

I really hope we find him alive.

I don’t want to listen to everyone mope if we don’t.

oO0Oo  
 **Day Twenty-Six**  
oO0Oo

It was Buzz,, who finally brought something to Henry’s attention. He, like many on the police force, had spent every spare minute looking for their favorite psychic. 

Hesitantly, Buzz walked up to where Henry was poring over files. “Mr. Spencer?”

Henry didn’t even look up.

“This is probably nothing. In fact, I’m sure you already saw it and dismissed it. I shouldn’t even bother you—”

Annoyed, Henry glanced up at him. “What is it, Buzz?”

“I know you checked all his financials—”

“Get to the point!” Henry interrupted.

“What about cash?”

Henry sighed. The spark of excitement Buzz had managed to ignite died. “We can’t track cash.”

“Well… I know, but—”

“Spit it out!”

“We know Frey had a job… I checked his paychecks against the amount he was depositing each week, and there’s a discrepancy.” He sped up when he saw that Henry was about to shoot his theory full of holes. It wouldn’t be hard to do. “The total discrepancy is $2,150.”

Henry had several possible explanations for this. “Of course he kept some cash when he deposited his check. Everybody does that. The guy still has to buy food—” _hopefully, he bought some food for Shawn,_ Henry finished his thought silently.

Buzz cut him off. “I ran that _specific_ amount against his known contacts who have criminal ties.”

Now Henry was staring hard at the young officer. His theory was such an incredibly long shot…

But… A long shot was exactly what Shawn needed.

“His former cellmate, Mark Jones—whom you, of course, investigated right away—and, as far as anyone can tell, is living on the straight and narrow—deposited _that exact amount_ in his savings account a week before Shawn was taken and withdrew it again the same day.”

Henry stared at him. This could be it.

“He screwed up,” Henry whispered. “He screwed up! Frey paid him for _something_ and must have been furious when he found out Jones had made a deposit we could track—forced him to withdraw it right away. This could be it, Buzz!” Henry stared up at him. “This could be it! Where did the money go from there?”

“That’s as far as I got. I wanted to tell you right away.”

Henry was on his feet. His chest was tight with excitement, hope, and fear. What if this was yet another promising lead that disintegrated in his hands, as so many others had over the last weeks?

“Lassiter!” he shouted.

oO0Oo  
 **Still Day Twenty-Six**  
oO0Oo

They were up all night following this, the slenderest of threads…

Shortly after midnight, the beginning of what would be the twenty-seventh day, they _finally_ had a breakthrough.

They found a connection between Frey’s cellmate, Jones, and a shady real estate agent. Their investigation turned up three possible properties that had gone unsold long enough to be pulled off the market.

The race was on.

oO0Oo  
 **Juliet**  
oO0Oo

I can’t believe how long it’s been. 

Any kidnapping, you’ve got 48 hours, and then the survival rate starts to plummet. That’s just procedure. That’s what they teach us at the academy. Of course, that’s mostly for children…

But Shawn? He’s childlike, in the most endearing way possible. He likes me; I’m pretty sure. He sends out signals—pretty clear signals—but then he pulls back. Sometimes, I think something just distracts him. Or maybe he’s scared. I’m pretty sure he’s been hurt. But he should know I’m a safe bet. I'd go out with him in a heartbeat. But Shawn? He wants to keep it light. And I have a feeling that if the two of us actually got together—seriously got to know each other, like a couple—it would be light and flirty and fun, but it could get serious.

Oh my goodness. I could get serious with Shawn Spencer! I could! I can totally see that happening!

_What am I thinking?_

I’m an officer of the law, and Shawn… Shawn is a victim! A victim of a serious crime.

I must focus.

We know he was injured; there was a drop of blood on the sidewalk. And we know that, if there was a drop of blood on the sidewalk, there were many others on skin and clothing. Forensics can give you the volume of probable blood loss given the amount of blood left behind at the scene. Thankfully, Shawn probably didn’t lose much in the initial attack, but the fact that his captor wasn’t afraid to spill blood does not bode well.

And he’s been missing for so long.

We’ve had so many false leads, clues that dissolved in our hands. I don’t know if I’ve ever faced a case so frustrating—or so urgent.

Please let this lead pan out!

Please be there, Shawn!

Oh, Shawn…


	3. The Lost Boy(s)

oO0Oo  
 **Dawn, Day Twenty-Seven**  
oO0Oo

Lassiter glanced uncomfortably at the man in the seat beside him.

Henry stared tensely out the windshield, his jaw working.

“It’s been almost a month,” Lassiter ventured, finally sharing something that had been on his mind for a while now. They had been so focused on solving the case, they hadn’t actually talked much about the victim.

No response.

“Have you thought about—”

_“What?”_ Henry snapped, still staring at the road ahead. “Have I _thought_ about the fact that my son has been held captive for nearly a month? My idiot son who can’t sit still for more than five minutes?” Henry’s hand gripped the car door even tighter, his knuckles turning white. “Are you asking me if I have thought about the fact that if… _if we find him alive_... he may _never_ fully recover from this? Have I thought about _that?_ ” Now nearly shouting, he finally turned and glared at the detective who did not take his eyes off the road. “Once or twice over the last twenty-six sleepless nights, Lassiter,” he continued more quietly. “Maybe once or twice.”

“He’s tougher than people think,” was the only response Lassiter had.

“It’s all my—” Henry bit off the last word. He didn’t need Lassiter knowing his guilt. It _was_ all his fault. Frey took Shawn because of _him_. And it was _his_ fault Shawn had been held for _so long!_ _Why_ hadn’t he figured it out sooner? Why hadn’t he made the connections? Shawn would have, had their positions been reversed. Henry _wished_ their positions were reversed. He would give anything to take this burden from his son.

“Henry…” Lassiter decided to go out on a limb. The man needed to hear some things. “You have been a cop long enough to know that you are not responsible for the actions of an insane criminal! Frey was a thief. You caught him and put him away-”

“Yeah,” Henry shot back. “Separating him from his only son who was killed exactly twenty-seven days after he was locked up. He never saw him again.” _That_ was a kind of fury and a desire for revenge Henry could understand.

“His kid was a gangbanger who _chose_ to live a dangerous life. A drive-by was inevitable.” Lassiter glanced over at Henry. _“That’s_ not your fault. _None of this_ is your fault.”

Henry grimaced. “Go faster.”

Lassiter did.

oO0Oo

They pulled up in front of the dilapidated farmstead in a cloud of dust.

Their breakthrough in the wee hours of the morning had given them three possible locations where Frey might be keeping Shawn, so the team had split up. O’Hara and McNab had taken one location, Chief Vick had taken Gus along to the second, and Henry and Lassiter had come here: an old, abandoned farmhouse in the forest above Santa Barbara. The house had a slightly sturdier-looking outbuilding behind it.

Lassiter was extremely uncomfortable with Henry’s presence. There was no way the father of the victim should be in on the search. But he had too much experience with the stubbornness of Spencer men to even suggest the older man sit this one out. “If we split up, we’ll cover more territory.”

Henry nodded once. “I’ll take the shed.” And, gun drawn, he moved off.

Lassiter almost smiled. He’d hoped Spencer would do exactly that. There had been some intel Karen had kept from the others. She’d shown Lassiter the slender thread that suggested _maybe_ the abandoned house had the tiniest edge in likelihood. Not enough to focus all their resources there; they still needed to check all the possibilities, but…

There was a reason she had split up the teams the way she did. She had gotten to know the charming psychic over the years. No matter what his treatment had been, after twenty-seven days in captivity, she wanted a friend there for him.

But _if they were too late…_ Lassiter was, of all of them, herself included, best equipped to handle that. She’d let her head detective know _exactly_ what she was letting him in for.

Her head detective had agreed with her.

Lassiter had been certain that, given a choice, Henry would take the shed. It _looked_ much more likely to be a prison. And that was where the detective wanted his companion while he checked out the house by himself.

If _anyone_ was going to find Shawn’s body, it wouldn’t be Henry. Not if Lassiter could help it.

No one spoke of it, but Lassiter was pretty sure he wasn’t the only one who had considered the very possible fact that Shawn had been killed the night he was taken. He knew the text had promised Shawn would be kept alive for twenty-seven days and _then_ killed, but he also knew better than to rely on promises from criminals. He mentally braced himself for the possibility that he was about to discover the body of a friend who had been dead for a month.

Gun drawn and ready, he climbed the few steps onto the sagging porch. Opening the cracked and peeling front door, he cleared the dusty front room. He ignored the couch that had clearly become living space for some rodent. He cleared the kitchen, avoiding the cracked and curling ancient linoleum. He went straight to the cellar door—the door with the shiny new padlock on it.

The butt of his pistol made quick work of that, and he was at the top of the stairs. He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He coughed once at the stench that hit him and started breathing through his mouth. The only good thing about the odor was that it was more sewer than crypt.

Maybe.

_Maybe_ Spencer was alive.

_Today_ was the twenty-seventh day since Frey had captured and imprisoned Shawn. _This was the day_ Frey had told Henry—had _promised_ Henry—that Shawn would die—just as his own son had.

But it was still early.

Lassiter tried the light switch to his left, but nothing happened. “Figures,” he muttered, pulling out his flashlight and slowly proceeding down the stairs.

When he had descended enough that he had a good view of the small, dirt-floored room, he paused and swept his light around. Was Spencer there? There were a few broken shelves against one wall, some bits of garbage scattered around, a pile of rags in a corner, but not much else. Was one of the other teams having more luck? He moved his light back to the pile of rags…

Was it a pile of rags, a dead body, or could it be Spencer?

The rest of the room being clear, he holstered his weapon as he shouted, “Spencer?”

No response.

As he came closer, he confirmed that what he had initially taken for a pile of rags was indeed the missing psychic. Curled up into a ball, he had squeezed himself as tightly as possible into a corner, his arms across his knees, his head buried in his arms. What skin was visible was pale and covered in scrapes and bruises.

He wasn’t moving.

Lassiter approached slowly, his gut twisting in anticipation of what he might find. “Spencer?” he asked more quietly.

Kneeling, he reached out slowly. “Shawn?”

He touched the still man’s shoulder.

It was as if he had pushed the plunger on a pile of dynamite. Shawn exploded into motion, scooting frantically along the wall away from Lassiter.

Lassiter saw how his shirt and skin tore on the rough, exposed brick. In the light of his flashlight, he noted how Shawn’s left arm appeared completely useless and his right leg didn’t move quite right. “Spencer!” he shouted again before Shawn could do too much damage to himself.

Spencer’s wild, terrified eyes seemed more animal than human. His mouth was open as if to scream, but no sound came.

“Spencer, it’s me!”

No recognition. No response. The other man desperately continued his pitiful attempt at escape. Finally hitting the adjacent corner, he huddled there, visibly shaking but ready to take flight again at the smallest provocation. His one good arm was raised as if to ward off a blow.

“It’s me! Lassiter!” A brief pause as Lassiter considered, then reluctantly surrendered, “Lassie?”

At the sound of the hated nickname, Shawn raised his head a fraction and froze. He was utterly still for a moment, his face scrunched up in… pain? Confusion? Both? Lassiter didn’t know.

A sound between a sob and a whimper escaped him. Then, with an uncertain and fearful tremble, he rasped so quietly Lassiter almost missed it, _“Lassie?”_

Lassiter relaxed a fraction: Shawn was alive and at least partially aware. “Yeah, Spencer, it’s me. It’s over. You’re safe.”

There was a brief pause.

Lassiter, unsure how best to proceed, waited a beat.

There was no way he could have been prepared for what happened next.

Shawn shot toward him, covering the few feet between them with surprising speed. He threw himself on Lassiter and wrapped his good arm around him as tightly as he possibly could, nearly knocking the detective off balance in the process.

Lassiter braced himself and grudgingly allowed the hug. He put his own arm firmly around Spencer, telling himself it was only to keep the man from falling and injuring himself further.

With his arm around Spencer, Lassiter could feel every rib. Add that to the bony shoulder digging into his chest and the gaunt arm wrapped around his neck, he was shocked at how emaciated Shawn had become. The man was skin and bones and positively trembling from his exertions. Had Frey fed him at all? How badly was he injured?

“Spencer?” He needed Shawn to let go so he could begin to assess. “Spencer!”

Shawn only hugged him tighter, causing Lassiter to realize that, while the psychic was holding on for dear life, his grip was pitifully weak. He could have pushed him off easily, but he suspected the last thing Shawn needed right then was rough handling. And he definitely needed the comfort of human contact. Still, they couldn’t stay like this forever. “Spencer!” he shouted.

Finally, Shawn let go and sat back, wincing. What was causing the pain, Lassiter could only guess.

“C’mon, Lassie. I’m blind, not deaf!” Shawn complained as he hugged himself and tried to lean back against the wall again. The fresh injuries to his back made him hiss in pain, and he relented and tried to find a way to hunch over casually.

“ _What_?” Lassiter asked, shocked.

“Yeah. I mean... I know it’s… dark down here, but I can’t… can't see a thing. I bet you’ve got… a flash… flash… light.” He tried to swallow. “Don’t you?” Shawn’s voice was quiet and rough. It sounded as if his throat was lined with sandpaper, and he could barely get any air past it.

Lassiter shined the beam directly into the psychic’s eyes, and there was absolutely no reaction.

“You just shined it in my eyes, didn’t you?” There was a pitiful echo of the familiar humor in his voice.

Lassiter didn’t justify that with a response; sadness and pity were beginning to take over for fear.

“I don’t think it’s... it’s permanent, though...” Shawn tried to clear his throat, but coughed instead, wrapping his good arm tightly around his ribs as he did so. Once he caught his breath, he continued, “Smoky just kicked me too hard… in just the right spot... I think… I think it’ll come back once the swelling goes down.” There was a pause, then a tentative whisper, “That’s a thing… right?”

The desperation to sound casual in the face of paralyzing fear was pitiful in the detective’s ears.

“Yeah… That’s a thing,” he murmured, trying not to imagine Shawn being kicked in the head.

They were silent. Lassiter knew he needed to be moving. There were, first and foremost, people to notify. Spencer desperately needed medical attention. But for the moment, both men just relished the fact that the ordeal was over.

Shawn reached out and rested a hand on Lassiter’s arm as if he needed to reassure himself the detective was really there.

Lassiter didn’t shake it off. “Smoky?”

“Yeah. He stank up the place with his second, third… fourth… maybe fifth-hand smoke,” Shawn mumbled. “Never caught… his name.” He tried to chuckle but coughed. “This might surprise you, but he wasn’t all that chatty… Didn’t tell me _anything.”_

There was something about the tone of Shawn’s voice. There was a depth there he hadn’t heard before. And then the detective understood; This had been the worst part. Spencer’s captor couldn’t have tortured him more painfully if he’d tried. For twenty-seven days, not knowing why, who, where… Where everyone else was, why they weren’t rescuing him. Wondering if they even knew if he was gone, if they had missed him. His dad, Guster, O’Hara… even Lassiter had to miss him eventually. Who had taken him, why he had been imprisoned, why the guy had wanted to hurt him. The not knowing must have been the worst part of his torture.

“Frey was—” Lassiter began to inform him, but he stopped when he saw Spencer’s reaction to the name. He didn’t realize it, but, with one word, he had hit Shawn with a blast of information: exactly the information the man needed to start making sense of his whole ordeal, the key that unlocked the whole mess.

It was almost a physical blow. He nearly curled back into the tight little ball again, then Lassiter realized he was whispering to himself, finger half-raised to his temple. The detective leaned in to hear.

“ _Frey_ … _Thief_ … _Dad... Son killed... Twenty-six… Twenty-_ seven _... I… Ohhh…”_ Then he gasped and fell silent, his empty eyes darting around pointlessly as if searching for something. _“What… day... is it?”_ he whispered fearfully, putting his hand back on Lassiter’s arm, this time gripping hard.

Lassiter, seeing that he was spiraling into a dark place, interrupted, “Spencer, we need to—”

“Where’s Gus?” Shawn interrupted in as normal a tone as he could manage.

_And he’s back._ Lassiter knew the kid had a unique mind. He only hoped it would get him through this. “With the Chief. They’re checking out another possible location.”

Shawn processed that, blinking his unseeing eyes.

Lassiter watched warily.

“My dad’s here... Isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

Then Shawn smiled, his chapped lips cracking. “You kept him out of here so he wouldn’t have to find my body, didn’t you? You old softy!” He gave Lassiter's arm a little shake.

Lassiter smiled since he knew Spencer wouldn’t see. Shawn was just as sharp as ever, and that went a long way toward relief. He would have a mountain of physical and emotional issues to climb before this was all over, but he was himself… more or less.

“Don’t let him down here.” A small voice, but desperate.

Lassiter frowned at the odd request. He knew the two Spencers had a rocky relationship, but things had seemed much better between them recently. And if Shawn knew what his dad had been through these last weeks…

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t…” Shawn stopped himself abruptly, biting his lip and frowning.

It seemed to Lassiter that Shawn had caught himself telling the unvarnished truth and, for some unfathomable reason, couldn’t let that happen.

Shawn’s jaw worked as he tried to come up with an excuse.

Lassiter scowled since he knew that coming up with excuses was _never_ a problem for Spencer and let him off the hook. He threw in a bit of humor himself in an attempt to diffuse Shawn’s obvious tension. “Have you met your dad? It’s not like I could stop him even if I wanted to. And, believe me, after the last few weeks, I don’t want to.”

So much for humor.

“I…” Shawn tried to interrupt him, holding up a hand and shaking his head as if he couldn’t bear to hear the detective’s words. “I just…”

Then Lassiter realized that what Spencer couldn’t bear was the thought of his father’s pain, not to mention the emotional storm that was sure to accompany their reunion. Shawn was barely holding it together as it was. Seeing his father…

Before Lassiter could process that line of thought any further, there was a noise from upstairs. Just a tiny squeak of rubber-soled shoe against the wood floor, but it caused an instinctive, terrified repeat of Shawn’s earlier flight response. More fresh abrasions were torn in his back before Lassiter could get ahold of him.

Scrambling after him, he grabbed Shawn’s gaunt shoulders and held him still. He could feel the shudders coursing through the man’s body, hear the shallow, panicked breaths as Shawn fought to escape. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he soothed holding him in place with little effort. “It’s just your father. You’re okay.” And he wished his last words were true.

Shawn grabbed hold of his arm again. Wide, terrified eyes stared at a point somewhere past his shoulder as Shawn desperately tried to hang on—to Lassiter and to reality.

As long as it had been just the two of them, together inside Shawn’s dark little bubble, he had been able to stay calm. Talking with Lassie, once he’d convinced himself Lassiter was real, he’d felt safe for the first time in ages. The noise—to Shawn’s heightened hearing—had been a shocking reminder that there was a big, scary, unseen world out there. A world that had a killer in it— _his_ killer. He wasn’t safe after all. He felt exposed—utterly defenseless in a world he couldn’t see.

“Lassiter!” came a shout from the top of the stairs.

Shawn gasped and tried to escape again, but Lassiter held him firmly, so instead he shrank into an even smaller ball, pushing his torn back into the bricks, still shaking.

“You got this?” Lassiter asked. “Can I let go?”

_“No!”_ Shawn was screaming inside. _“Don’t let go! Don’t leave me!”_

But, on the outside, he managed the barest of nods, and Lassiter stood and made his way quickly to the stairs. He didn’t want to leave Spencer in his condition, but he needed to meet the elder Spencer and give him some idea of what to expect.

oO0Oo

Henry had methodically cleared every inch of the shed. He’d been so sure. This _had_ to be where Frey was keeping Shawn.

But it wasn’t.

In fact, it didn’t look like anyone had crossed the threshold in months.

Defeated, he made his way to the house, certain the detective was having no better luck. Maybe one of the other teams? But then, why hadn’t they called? If they’d found Shawn alive, wouldn’t his phone be practically jumping off his belt? If they hadn’t…

He couldn’t bear the thought, pushed it away along with the nausea that threatened to rise with it.

Stepping into the gloom of the old house his eyes immediately went to the open cellar door—especially the broken padlock hanging off a bent hinge.

He stared at it.

His gut was roiling from his desperation not to get his hopes up too high and at the same time wanting so fiercely for his son to be alive.

Could he be?

Lassiter was nowhere in sight. He must be in the cellar. What had he found?

Shawn _had_ to be alive. He _had_ to.

He might not be…

Even if he was alive, he might be permanently… damaged somehow... Physically, mentally, emotionally…

Henry forced his feet to carry him to the top of the stairs.

He shouted for Lassiter.

He was just about to start down the stairs when the man appeared at the bottom.

When Henry saw just how grim Lassiter looked, his legs gave out and he sat on the top step. Hard. Shawn couldn’t be dead. Not after all this. Not after holding on to hope for so long…

“He’s alive.”

Tearful eyes looked down at Lassiter from a clearly overwhelmed mind.

“Shawn’s alive,” he repeated, letting it sink in. As he climbed a few steps closer, the detective realized Shawn was right. Neither of these men was prepared to handle the heartrending reunion that was about to take place. He also knew there was no stopping it. They both needed it.

He put out a hand.

Henry took it and was pulled to his feet.

“He’s alive, and he’s thinking _pretty_ clearly, considering. But you gotta be prepared.” Lassiter hoped his blunt reporting of the facts would ground the man and bring out some of that famous Spencer stoicism. “He’s injured, and he’s blind. He thinks it’s temporary, but don’t make any sudden moves. He’s pretty skittish.”

Henry stared at him for a long moment, processing. He blinked the moisture away and spoke. “Let me see my son.”

Satisfied, Lassiter grimaced as he turned sideways on the steps. Henry pushed past.

Shawn had somehow managed to get himself semi-upright. He was leaning heavily against the wall, turned a bit sideways to avoid putting pressure on his back. All his weight was on his left leg, but he was standing. His head was cocked. He was listening intently.

Lassiter sat quietly and pointed his flashlight toward the whitewashed ceiling, thereby creating a soft glow that somewhat illuminated the small room.

Henry paused at the foot of the stairs and drank in the sight of his son, clearly injured and in pain but _alive!_ Alive and standing on his own two feet—make that one foot, Henry corrected as he assessed what he could of Shawn’s condition. He was careful to make noise so Shawn would hear his steady footfalls as he approached.

“Hey, Da-d,” Shawn made a valiant attempt to sound normal, even casual, but his voice betrayed him, and the last word ended on a choked whimper. He’d imagined a sarcastic and hilarious sentence that was going to follow. His mouth tried to form the words, but the sound wouldn’t come.

Henry clenched his jaw. He needed to be strong now.

He shuffled a final step so Shawn would know he was standing directly in front of him. He reached out and touched his son. “Hey, pal.”

“Da-ad?”

Shawn _wanted_ to repeat with his dad what he’d said to Lassiter, but, unfortunately, he was realizing he hadn’t been upright in a very long time, and he lacked the strength to do anything other than stay that way. In fact, he wasn’t even sure he could do _that_ for much longer.

Thankfully, Henry saw that. Ever so gently, he put an arm around Shawn and helped him sit, carefully guiding the injured leg out in front of him. Once they were both on the ground, he didn’t let go. Pulling Shawn to lean against him, he sat and simply held his son. He was horrified at Shawn’s condition. Holding his son in his arms, he realized just how fragile he was. He was so thin, Henry was afraid he would break. He was constantly trembling, although whether from fear, exhaustion, pain, or all three, Henry couldn’t tell.

He felt Shawn ever so slowly melt into him, the constant tremble building into a shudder that flowed into sobs. The sobs were mixed with garbled words. “Why? Why didn’t you come? Where were you? I waited… I waited so long… I couldn’t… He… It hurt… _so… much…”_

"It's okay… It's okay… You're safe now," Henry murmured to him, over and over and over again. He would hold his son and let him pour out his heart for as long as he needed. Nothing else mattered at the moment.

This was good. Lassiter had been worried that Spencer would keep the memories of this horrible experience bottled up under a layer of sarcasm and jokes so they would fester and burn him from the inside out. Crying into his father’s shoulder was the healthiest thing Lassiter had seen him do yet. He could hear Spencer saying things to his father. He couldn’t understand the words, although he could guess what they might be.

Then he barely made out, between choked sobs, words that sounded more purposeful than the others: “It’s not”— _hiccup_ —“your fault.”

At that, Henry closed his eyes and just held his son tighter.

Lassiter laid his flashlight on the steps and went upstairs to make a phone call.


	4. Waiting to Exhale

Soon, the old farmstead was crowded with several police cars and an ambulance. Officers went about their business processing the scene. The forensics team got busy. Everyone hoped some clue would turn up as to the perpetrator’s whereabouts.

Oddly, almost everyone avoided the center of the action: the cellar of the old house. The victim had yet to emerge, and EMTs had not yet been allowed in to tend to him.

O’Hara was wringing her hands in front of Lassiter. Gus stood silently at her shoulder. _“Why_ can’t we see him?” she asked. “If he’s hurt, why aren’t the EMTs in there?”

Gus had guessed why they weren’t being allowed in yet. His respect for the head detective had grown quite a bit when he’d realized Lassiter was actually protecting Shawn. He didn’t say a word.  
  
Lassiter nodded to himself, looking out over her head. “Just be glad he doesn’t _need_ them in there yet. He’s been through a lot, O’Hara; just give him a minute.”

She stared up at him, biting her lip. She, like all of them, had some idea of what this prolonged solitude could do to Shawn. She was glad Henry was in there with his son, but she desperately wanted to see him for herself. “I’m at least going in the house. Gus? You coming?”

Gus followed.

oO0Oo

In the cellar, Shawn’s sobs had finally subsided into choked gasps and then into silence.

But he hadn’t let go.

Henry was glad to hear Shawn’s breathing was now somewhat even. He’d felt the bloody mess of Shawn’s back as he’d held his son, but Shawn barely seemed to notice.

Henry knew well that his son didn’t get a papercut without putting on a huge display and wringing all possible sympathy out of anyone nearby. What had happened over the days of his captivity that he could sit here bleeding, injured, and clearly in pain and not say a word?

Henry was careful when he finally settled Shawn into a more comfortable position against the wall. “That okay?” he asked, knowing it wasn't.

Shawn just nodded, staring at the floor. “Where’s Gus?”

“I’m sure he’s here by now… You want to see him?”

Instead of answering, Shawn whispered tentatively, “Did you... did you get him?”

Henry really didn’t want to answer that one, but the pause told Shawn all he needed to know.

Henry felt the tension suddenly ratchet up in his son. He grasped Shawn’s shoulders reassuringly. “Hey, hey, you’re safe now, and that’s all that matters. You hear me?”

But Shawn’s breathing had once more become gasps.

“Shawn... Shawn! You’re safe! I’ve got you.”

Shawn’s wide and empty eyes darted around the room. His hand latched like a vise onto his father’s arm, his body as taut as a bowstring. “Dad?” he whimpered. “ _He’s out there…”_

Shawn heard himself. He knew he sounded like a crazy person. Having first Lassiter and now Henry with him was emphasizing the fact that, while _they_ were still their normal selves, he… wasn’t. He wanted desperately to be normal too, but he was just too terrified to do anything about it.

Henry tried a different tack. “You wanna go see Gus? Juliet is upstairs, too. You wanna see them?”

“Gus—” came out on a tremulous wheeze as Shawn grabbed ahold of the centering thought of his best and truest friend. “Jules? _Upstairs?”_ He knew what his dad was trying to do and desperately wanted it to work. He needed to stop freaking out.

“Yeah.” Henry forced his voice to sound casual in order to reinforce the distraction. He gently grasped both Shawn’s arms, helping to ground him. “You ready to go see them?”

The distraction was working. Shawn fought to slow his breathing and focus on something— _anything_ other than his fear. “I can’t.”

“Shawn…”

“No. I mean… I can’t climb the stairs.” Shawn cleared his throat and explained, “I kept trying to get the door open—get _out_. Almost did it a couple times. After that, Smoky”—a momentary hitch as he very nearly lost control again—“made sure I couldn’t climb the stairs anymore.” He rested a hand on his injured leg.

“Is it broken?”

“I don’t know. Don’t think so... Just can’t put any weight on it. I still scooted up there on my butt, but he… discouraged that, too,” Shawn finished quietly on what was surely a horrific and painful memory. “He seemed to just show up… whenever he was having a bad day and needed to… to take out... some frustrations…” A pause then as Shawn closed his eyes and tried not to remember. “I didn’t know why… I didn’t _know…”_ He swallowed, desperately trying to silence himself. He didn’t want his dad to know how horrific his captivity had been. Days— _weeks—_ alone in the dark, in the silence. No one to talk to. 

Henry closed his eyes in sympathy and regret.

“I can’t climb the stairs,” Shawn stated bluntly, trying to bring them back to the matter at hand. He hadn’t meant to tell Henry any of that.

“Okay… What do you want to do?”

Shawn surprised his father by chuckling. “Well, we can’t let the Super-Smeller come down here, can we?”

Grateful that Shawn was at least willing to try, Henry played along. “Probably not a good idea. But, on the other hand, I don’t think Gus will wait until you’ve had a shower, do you?”

“C’mon, Dad,” Shawn whined. “Please tell me I don’t smell quite as bad as this room does.”

The corner of Henry’s lip quirked upward, and he wished Shawn could see it. He forced some humor into his voice instead. “You’re fine, kid. In fact, right now, you’re about the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

There was a moment of silence as neither man had expected _that._ But it was true. That morning, Henry had been pretty sure he would never see his son alive again. Never talk to him. Never be annoyed by him…

Shawn’s instinct was to tease his dad mercilessly for the compliment, but, somehow, he couldn’t make himself do it.

“You’ve got two choices here, kid,” Henry continued as if the previous sentence hadn’t been uttered. “The EMTs come down here with a stretcher or you let me carry you.” He tried not to think about how pitifully easy it would be to carry his son in his current condition.

“Is there a third option?”

“You tell me.”

“I could stay here,” Shawn whispered so quietly his dad almost missed it.

Henry sighed. “Shawn…”

“Um…” Shawn continued, trying to hide his slip. The last thing he wanted anyone to know was that the thought of actually leaving the cellar absolutely terrified him. “If you help… I think… I think I can do it.”

Henry looked at him. _“If you help,”_ Shawn had said, and Henry wasn’t at all sure he was referring to the _physical_ challenge of climbing the stairs.

Blind, crippled, and in pain—leaving the only reality he’d known for the better part of a month to face the rest of a world he couldn’t see, a world where a man waited to kill him. It would be one of the hardest things Shawn had ever done.

But he did it.

In the end, Henry very nearly had to carry him. It wasn’t hard to support Shawn’s weight, given how little of it there was. They had to stop three times on the way, although Henry couldn’t be sure if Shawn had to pause because of fatigue or fear.

“Fourteen,” Shawn had told him. “There’re fourteen steps.” Then, quietly, with a firm grip on the steadying presence of his father, “I can do this.”

They stopped on number thirteen. Shawn felt fresh air for the first time in twenty-seven days, and, in spite of the pain from his bruised ribs, took in a deep, slow, steadying breath of clean, sweet air. He closed his eyes and let it out. He didn’t know, yet, that both Gus and Juliet were silently watching—Juliet, with tears of both joy and sadness streaming down her face at the sight of him.

Seen in daylight, Shawn looked even worse than he had downstairs. His filthy, torn jeans were now about three sizes too big. His belt was cinched as tight as it would go, and it was barely succeeding in keeping his pants up. His shirt was tattered, and, through the holes, it was hard to tell where scrapes and bruises ended and dirt began. The entire left side of his face, especially near the temple, was badly bruised and swollen beneath a scruff of beard. His hair was matted and wild as if he had been grabbing fistfuls of it, and, now that he saw him from behind, Henry could see where it was matted with old, dried blood.

But it was his eyes that made Juliet weep. Eyes that were always so bright, that twinkled at her even when things were bad. Those eyes were dull and stared sightlessly at a point somewhere in the middle distance.

But Shawn wasn’t thinking about his looks.

This was upstairs! A place Shawn had dreamed about for the better part of a month. He extended his senses as Henry had taught him. Was it laid out like he’d imagined? Judging by the echoes telling him where the kitchen and front room were, he congratulated himself. He’d been pretty close. He also knew there were four people present. Gus was in front of him; Shawn could feel the reassuring warmth, sympathy, and unconditional friendship flowing off the man. Slightly smaller, Juliet was standing behind Gus’s right shoulder. The other two felt like strangers, and he guessed those were the EMTs.

“Are they there?” he whispered to his dad for confirmation.

“Yeah, kid. They’re happy to see you.”

Henry frowned because he could feel Shawn change. He was bracing himself, putting on an act, a false front. His shoulders went back, and he straightened his spine, although Henry knew the movement had to be painful. He plastered on a smile and took the last hop into freedom.

“Hey guys! Gus, you’d better prepare the Super-Smeller. My dad says I stink.”

Gus never hesitated. He walked up and hugged his buddy. Shawn forced himself not to wince and hugged him back with his good arm, closing his eyes and even laying his head against Gus’s shoulder for a moment.

“You do stink!” Gus’s forced laughter was awkward but welcomed, especially by Shawn. “But, dude! Your shirt makes you look just like Bruce Banner after he changes back from The Hulk.”

Shawn chuckled at that even as tears came to his eyes. “Thanks, buddy,” he whispered. He should have known he could trust Gus to give him his first genuine laugh in nearly a month, and it felt good. It felt like a promise, like healing.

Trusting his dad to keep him from falling as he balanced on one foot, Shawn put his hand on Gus’s face and felt the wetness there. “Sympathetic crier?” He felt Gus nod against his hand. “Then where’s Jules?”

She stepped closer to him.

Henry frowned because he felt Shawn suddenly tense when she approached. He knew Shawn was happy to ‘see’ Juliet, so the reaction had to be an instinctive fear of anyone approaching him. _Everyone_ was a threat right now. Henry would have to remember that.

She took his hand, and he smiled for her. “Here, Shawn. Are you…” Realizing how idiotic that question was, she changed tactics mid-sentence. “It’s good to see you.”

“We all thought you were dead,” Gus blurted.

“Gus, don’t be the last bit of ice cream in the bottom of the cone. I never even came close to that! Now where’s that stretcher? I want a ride!”

Only Henry knew that if Shawn _didn’t_ get on that stretcher—right now—he was going to collapse. He had pushed himself well beyond his current limits.

oO0Oo

Once they had him on the stretcher, the EMTs immediately started an IV. In the absence of any obvious life-threatening injuries, treating Shawn’s dehydration and malnutrition were of first importance in stabilizing him. In his fragile condition, he could easily go into shock, and that could kill him.

But Shawn wasn’t interested in what they were doing. He was staring blankly, thinking. He knew the others were hovering—worrying—but he couldn’t stand to think about that right now. He was thinking about everything that first Lassiter and then his dad had told him.

Physically sidelined, his mind was the only tool he had to combat the terror that was threatening to overwhelm him. And it was working; the harder he concentrated on beating Frey, the more he beat back his fear.

“Lassie?” he croaked when he heard someone enter. It sounded like Lassie’s shoes, and he was right.

Lassiter rested a hand on Shawn’s arm so he’d know where he was.

Shawn turned his head in that direction. “How many?” he rasped.

Lassiter frowned. “How many…”

“Cars!” Shawn clarified impatiently. “What kind of police presence did you bring?”

“There’s—”

“Too many,” Shawn whimpered almost desperately. He squirmed as he wished _someone_ could keep up with his thought process. “Today’s day twenty-seven, isn’t it?” he asked.

No one responded.

Frustrated, he continued, bluntly stating what they were all too afraid to say. “Frey’s kid was killed twenty-seven days after he went away. That means I’m supposed to die _today.”_

Henry stared at his son. _How did he know any of that?_ Frey hadn’t told him anything. And for that matter, how could he speak of his own death so casually?

And then Henry realized Shawn knew because he remembered.

He didn’t even know Shawn had been paying attention when he’d arrested Frey. That had been years ago when Shawn had wanted nothing to do with police work. _How_ did he know _anything_ about Frey or his kid or the amount of time that had passed?

He remembered.

Shawn always observed; he always remembered. The fact that he was putting it all together so quickly was impressive, even to Henry.

Lassiter knew Frey hadn’t explained anything; Shawn had said as much.

Lassiter had told him the name of his captor, and he vividly remembered Shawn’s response.He had put everything together in those few seconds. Maybe he really was psychic. Lassiter briefly shook his head at the thought.

“C’mon!” Shawn whined, wanting everyone— _someone_ —else to catch up. “Smoky told me yesterday that it was day twenty-six. It was the first time he’d told me _anything_. I didn’t know what he meant at the time, but…”

“He’s coming here!” Juliet suddenly exclaimed. “We can catch him!”

Shawn, finally relieved, waved a thumbs-up in her direction.

Lassiter exchanged a look with Henry and then turned to Vick who had come in just in time to hear her detective’s exclamation.

The Chief nodded. “Let’s move, people!”

Everyone except Henry, Gus, and the EMTs who were still busy trying to stabilize Shawn left to clear the area and try to put together a trap for Frey before he arrived.

The EMTs weren’t about to worry anyone, but Shawn was far from out of danger.

Shawn hissed as an ice pack was applied to the side of his head. The other EMT flashed a penlight in his eye.

Henry saw his eyebrows shoot up. “Did you see that?” he asked hopefully.

Shawn responded softly, “I think so? Sort of?”

The EMTs looked at each other. “I’m going to do it again, Shawn. Watch closely.”

This time, Shawn smiled.

The EMT nodded. “That confirms it. It’s most likely concussive. There’s no reason, right now, to think your vision won’t return completely,” she comforted, resting a hand on Shawn’s shoulder.

Henry watched Shawn take a deep breath in relief and wince.

The EMT on the left shook his head. “Yeah. Pretty sure you’ve got some bruised or maybe even cracked ribs, so keep breathing even and steady, but not too deep, okay, Shawn? I’m going to give you a mask to make sure you’re getting enough oxygen.”

Shawn turned his head, still unseeing, toward the man. “Hey, you’re getting pretty familiar there. Can I at least get a name?”

The EMT smiled. “Name’s Mark. The person on your other side is Justine. She’s really good at her job, but you don’t want to piss her off, so do as you’re told.”

Shawn did his best to point his eyes in her general direction. “Yes, ma’am, but if there’s any sponge bathing to be done—”

“Shawn!” Henry rebuked firmly while silently cheering his son’s resilience.

Justine smiled at that, and Shawn could hear it in her voice as she spoke. “Time to go, gentlemen.”

Henry put a hand on her arm. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Both EMTs looked outside. All the vehicles, including their ambulance, had disappeared while they were focused on their patient.

“If we’re going to catch the man who did this,” Henry explained, “we have to make it look like nothing’s changed. He’s—hopefully—going to drive into an ambush.”

The EMTs exchanged glances. Shawn was fairly stable, but, in spite of his quips, they knew the man in their care was more fragile than spun glass. It wouldn’t take much to send him down a spiral from which they could not save him.

Their reaction was not lost on Henry.

“You’re sure there’s no way—” Justine began.

Henry grimaced. “No,” he said, knowing he might be putting his son’s life in danger again. “No way.”

It was Gus’s turn to pipe up. “But-”

“No,” Henry said, ending it. He knew that, if they took Shawn out now and Frey drove up and saw them, the criminal would either turn and run or stand his ground and start shooting—with Shawn in the crossfire. There was no way Henry would let that happen. Staying in the house, he _might_ be putting Shawn in danger. Leaving, he _definitely_ would. He moved closer and grasped Shawn’s hand, knowing this would be hard on him.

They stayed as they were for four agonizing minutes. Shawn becoming more tense with each drip of his IV.

Gus tried to think of something clever to say to distract his buddy, but he couldn’t get past the thought that Frey was on his way.

Then there was the sound of a car.

Shawn’s eyes shut, tears squeezing from the corners. His grip on his father’s hand became a death grip. Panic was beginning to take over. “He’s _here,_ ” Shawn whispered, terrified.

Gus moved to where he could see out but stayed well back from the window so he couldn’t be seen.

“It’s Frey,” Gus reported. He understood instinctively that Shawn _needed_ to know.

At the announcement, Shawn’s breath hitched.

Justine put her stethoscope against his heart. “Hang in there, Shawn,” she murmured to him. “You’re safe. Just keep breathing.”

“It’ll all be over soon,” Henry added. But the sound of Henry drawing his weapon was not lost on Shawn.

“Daaad...”

Henry wanted to get into firing position at the other window, but Shawn’s death grip wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t risk leaving Shawn. Not right then. For Shawn, blind... helpless... his captor returning…

Henry stayed right where he was and held on.

Gus also understood what it was like for Shawn and continued to quietly report everything he could see. “He’s stopped his car… He’s looking around, but I can’t tell if he’s suspicious or not….” He watched some more.

Shawn’s body was rigid, frozen with fear.

Mark was preparing a sedative.

“Nope! He’s putting it in reverse. He’s running!” Gus reported excitedly.

“Breathe, Shawn,” Justine whispered underneath Gus’s commentary. “Just breathe. In. Out. You’re safe. Your father won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

“The cops are moving their cars to block the road. He’s turned his car around… They’re not going to get there in time!”

Shawn stopped breathing.

Gunfire erupted.

“He’s shooting at them!”

There was a crash of metal.

“McNab tried to get in front of him, but he just crashed past. He’s still shooting—”

A window shattered… The window through which Gus had been watching.

At that, Shawn gasped and sucked in enough air to shout, _“Gus!”_

Fearing a bullet had come through the window and struck his best friend, Shawn, unable to see what was happening, shouted again, _“Gus!”_ He actually tried to get off the stretcher and go find out, struggling against the EMTs and Henry, who held him firmly in place. “Gus! Please! Let me… No! _Gus!_ ”

Then Gus was there, grabbing him, keeping him on the stretcher and telling him, “He got away, Shawn. He’s gone.”

“But we’re going to get him, Shawn. Don’t you worry about that.” Henry leaned in, glaring at Gus.

Shawn, ignoring his dad for something more important, grabbed onto Gus and didn’t let go. “You’re okay?” he gasped desperately. “Please tell me you’re—”

“Yeah, Shawn,” Gus told him. “I’m okay. Not even close.”

Mark injected the long-overdue sedative into the IV line. Sedatives were a bit risky in Shawn’s condition, but, under the circumstances, the benefits outweighed the risks.

Then, gradually—for quite possibly the first time in twenty-seven days—Shawn, grounded by his father and his best friend, slowly relaxed into a deep sleep.

oO0Oo

The SBPD went after Frey. Juliet quickly stopped to promise Henry they would keep him updated then ran after Lassiter to their car.

As soon as it was safe, Shawn was rushed to the hospital.

oO0Oo

Hours later, Juliet found Henry and Gus in a waiting room. “How is he?” she asked.

“Anything on Frey?” Henry demanded.

They spoke simultaneously, then stared at each other as they decided who would respond first.

Juliet just shook her head.

Henry grimaced, then answered her question. “It’s bad, but it’s a whole lot better than we have a right to expect…”

When his pause dragged on, Gus jumped in. “The worst problem, according to the doctors, is his shoulder. Frey must have pulled it out of joint, but it was never reset. He’s in surgery now to get that fixed.”

“The pain he must have been in,” Henry murmured, mostly to himself, “for weeks…”

With a sympathetic glance in Henry’s direction, Gus continued, “His leg will be okay. It’s not broken, just badly bruised—like bone-deep, damaged-muscle kind of bruising. The doctor said with enough rest and some therapy he should be fine in a few weeks.”

“His vision?” she asked, knowing how horrible it would be for Shawn if his blindness was permanent.

“As far as they can tell, his vision should return within a few days. It'll be blurry at first, and he'll be really sensitive to light, but eventually it _should_ get back to normal. As for the rest of his injuries, some of the cuts are badly infected. They’ll be treating those aggressively since he’s lost a lot of his ability to fight infection. I suggested some new meds that might help.” Gus’s voice turned soft. His gratitude at finally being able to offer concrete help to his buddy showed. “But the doctor was confident they’ll heal in time. Only a few of the worst cuts should scar.”

Henry picked up the report, nodding at Gus’s. He spoke rather bluntly and a little faster than usual, as if he had to get it out while he could. “Long term, he’ll have to work on building up his immune system. It looks like Frey occasionally brought water, but rarely, if ever, any food. That level of malnutrition... lack of sunlight, fresh air…it did a number on his immune system. Leaves him prone to any infection. They’ll keep him here a couple extra days just for that. Otherwise, he just needs to get his strength back.” He didn’t mention that getting his strength back could take years.

Juliet only nodded, wondering which was worse: the weeks of not knowing or the reality of knowing a friend had been tortured. She wanted to ask about Shawn’s emotional state, but she wasn’t at all sure she could handle the answer right now.

Henry changed the subject. “Nothing on Frey?” he demanded. “Really?”

She shook her head. “He knows those back roads a lot better than we do. He was pursued for a few miles, but it’s like a maze. He pulled around a corner and disappeared. When those in pursuit backtracked and found where he had turned off, the car was empty, and Frey was gone. They’ve got dogs out now trying to track a scent, but nothing so far. Lassiter and I are heading to the address his parole officer gave us.”

Henry shook his head. “We scoured that place ages ago when we first found out it was him!”

“I know,” she admitted. “But Carlton thinks it’s worth checking to see if he’s been back. We’re leaving no stone unturned.”

Henry stared at her, his jaw working. He desperately wanted to be able to tell Shawn that Frey was no longer a threat. It didn’t look like that was going to happen for a while. They were back where they’d started as far as finding Frey was concerned.

“We’re doing everything possible—”

“Don’t tell me that,” Henry growled. “I have said that too many times, and I know exactly what it means.”

Juliet calmly nodded her understanding. “I’m going to get back. I just wanted to let you know.”

Henry had turned away, so Gus responded, “Thank you, Juliet. We’ll let you know when Shawn’s out of surgery.”

She gave him a small smile and left.

Henry turned and looked at Gus. “I didn’t want to do this. I wanted to be able to tell Shawn that Frey was behind bars.”

Gus nodded. They just looked at each other, both of them thinking about what Shawn had endured because of this man. Both of them had seen his fear.

“There’s only one person who's spent enough time with Frey to figure out where he’s hiding.”

“He’s going to have to solve this himself, isn’t he?”

Henry nodded slightly. “I don’t know if he can… under the circumstances… What he’s been through...” Henry’s voice faded. “I don’t know if he can.”

They both believed Shawn _could_ do it, but they both knew finding a clue to Frey's whereabouts would mean Shawn would have to relive every moment he'd spent in the cellar in minute detail. He'd have to reexamine every moment he’d spent with Frey, every cruel thing Frey had said or done to him.

He'd have to remember all of it.


	5. The Awakening

When Shawn woke up, everything was dark.

He was blind.

He was alone.

He was in pain.

He was back in the cellar.

It wasn’t the first time he had imagined being rescued.

But this time it had felt so real. Hugging Lassie? His dad helping him up the stairs? It _had_ to be real.

Wait. Had Lassie hugged him back? Maybe it _wasn’t_ real…

He couldn’t accept that it wasn’t over. He could not face another moment in this horrible hole. He could not stand the thought of Smoky returning. He _couldn’t_.

He thought he heard noises—strange noises. Smoky must be back with some new torture. He panicked. He felt a grip on his arm. He tried to fight, even though it had never done him any good…

He couldn’t get free.

Something stabbed.

Everything faded away again.

oO0Oo

The second time Shawn woke up, he slowly, cautiously raised heavy eyelids. There was a vague, pinkish glow.

He blinked sluggishly a few times, and the light didn’t go away.

He could see!

Sort of.

_This_ wasn’t the cellar. Where was he? He blinked some more and tried to focus on the shapes in the room, but the harder he tried, the more his head hurt. He could see light, but everything else was just a blur of indistinct shapes.

There was one shape in particular that interested him, a dark shape that was closer than the others.

“Gus?” he whispered. He prayed his buddy was really there.

The lump moved. Came closer. “Hey, Shawn! How do you feel?”

His buddy _was_ there. Shawn couldn’t really see him, but he was definitely _there_. He _wasn’t_ in the cellar. The rescue had been real. From the smells and sounds, he guessed he was in the hospital.

Tears of relief filled his eyes. He squeezed them away and focused _only_ on the fact that Gus was with him. He couldn’t let himself think about anything else. He reached out a fist; Gus bumped it gently.

“Are you wearing your fireman pjs? Seriously, dude?” His voice was deceptively calm.

Gus knew better. “No! I’m not, Shawn! I’m wearing—” A pause. “You can _see?_ That’s awesome!” Gus said excitedly. “They said it should come back any time, but I didn’t think… Shawn! That’s great!”

“Still blurry,” Shawn murmured sleepily. “But we’re getting there.” He swallowed and tried to look around the room. The pink glow seemed to be coming from a window. “What time is it?”

“Dawn… ish,” Gus replied, shrugging. “There’s been someone here with you every moment. The doctor said after what you’ve been through, it would be good if you weren’t alone the next time you woke up. I guess the first time you woke up was… well...” Gus trailed off, not wanting to remind his best friend.

“Yeah,” was Shawn’s only response. He didn’t want to think about any of that. He didn’t want to think about the cellar or Frey or the things he would do… or the pain… the helplessness… being alone…

He didn’t hear Gus.

“Shawn. Shawn? You’re okay, Shawn.” Then, “Hey, doc?”

Everything faded away again.

oO0Oo

They all took turns sitting with Shawn, although no one except Gus felt they could stay long. With Frey still free, the investigation was their top priority. But even Lassiter offered to take a turn, which surprised everyone.

Gus finished his route early and headed to the hospital to take over for the head detective. Partly, he wanted Lassiter out looking for Frey, and, partly, he wasn’t at all sure about the detective’s bedside manner.

As he walked down the hall to Shawn’s room, Lassiter stormed out of it, looking furious.

“What’s wrong? Is Shawn okay?” Gus asked, suddenly worried. Lassiter had left Shawn alone, and that wasn’t supposed to happen. Ever. Every time Shawn was alone, or a stranger entered his room, he started to freak out.

“Doesn’t he _ever_ take _anything_ seriously?” Lassiter demanded of Gus.

“Um… no… not really,” Gus responded, still worried but now also confused.

“Therapy is a legitimate tool. No one should be ashamed to use it!” Lassiter growled in frustration.

Gus’s eyebrows nearly climbed off his forehead. Had Lassiter offered to sit with Shawn in order to encourage him to seek therapy? That was weird on so many levels.

On second thought, he supposed it made sense. He knew Lassiter’s own journey with therapy had started out rather rough, and it had taken him a while to see the benefits. Gus supposed it only made sense that he would assume Shawn felt the same. And after what Shawn had been through, he would definitely benefit.

But Lassiter was still staring at him, apparently expecting some kind of response.

Personally, Gus just wanted to get to Shawn’s room. “You _do_ know Shawn’s mom is a psychiatrist?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Lassiter responded dismissively. “She sometimes works with the department; everybody knows that.”

“Detective Lassiter,” Gus proceeded, trying not to make the detective feel more stupid than Shawn apparently had. “Shawn’s been seeing a therapist... off and on... for most of his life. I guarantee you he doesn’t see anything wrong with it.”

Lassiter stared at him, disbelieving. “Then why would he…” Then it all fell into place. Shawn had been teasing him, making fun of the therapy Lassiter had sincerely suggested just so he could rile him up. “Sweet Lady Justice!”

Gus couldn’t help but smile a little, although he tried to hide it for Lassiter's benefit. “I think he already has an appointment scheduled for tomorrow.”

Lassiter turned on his heel and strode away angrily.

Gus knew Shawn too well, so he spoke to the detective’s back, telling him what he needed to hear before he left. “He’s _also_ trying to show you he’s going to be okay… That things _will_ get back to normal. He _wants_ things to be normal.” Because ‘normal’—at least for Shawn and Lassiter—was one driving the other crazy. The detective paused, but didn’t turn, so Gus took that as permission to continue, “He told me what you did for him in the cellar, Lassie. He appreciates it.”

Lassiter threw a growl over his shoulder, understanding, but not liking it. “He’s got a funny way of showing it.” And he was gone.

Gus sighed. “Yes. Yes, he does.”

And he turned and went into Shawn’s room.

Shawn was grinning when Gus came in. He had apparently heard most of their conversation through the door. “Dude! Did his ears get red? I bet his ears turned bright red.”

Gus sucked his teeth. “Tch! Shawn!”

oO0Oo

Between the painful and exhausting physical therapy on his leg and shoulder, the emotionally draining sessions with his therapist, and the excruciatingly boring meetings with the nutritionist, Shawn slept a lot. Seriously, didn’t the nutritionist understand that all he really needed was mole tacos and pineapple smoothies? Sadly, he couldn’t convince anyone--not even Gus--to keep him supplied. Something about acidic fruits and certain spices being bad for his digestion right now. He only wished someone would give him a chance to prove how wrong they were. Pineapple would never betray him.

Shawn’s internal clock was still way off. He had a hard time knowing day from night. His vision was improving, but he was still incredibly sensitive to light, so, while having the blinds on the windows open would have helped him tell time, he couldn’t bear more than the pale rays of dawn he’d seen that first day with Gus.

Gus had promised to bring him some cool sunglasses the next time he visited. The ones the hospital supplied were just embarrassing. He’d rather sit in the dark.

And that’s exactly what he was doing when his dad came to relieve Buzz.

“Hey, Dad.”

Henry gave him a small smile, but, for some reason, he looked very uncomfortable as he turned on the small bedside light that was about all Shawn would tolerate. Henry knew that at this point, Shawn could see fairly well, but things like facial expressions, anything in small print, any sort of detail was mostly lost in a blur.

Usually, Henry mostly sat and read while Shawn dozed, so this was weird.

_“Uh oh,”_ ’ thought Shawn silently while he waited for Henry to say whatever it was he didn’t want to say. “What happened?” he teased out loud. “Did they cancel _Extreme Fishing_?” He suspected it had something to do with the investigation. It had only been a few days, but he knew they still hadn’t found Frey. His stomach twisted at the thought.

“How’re you feeling?” Henry asked, looking at his hands.

Shawn frowned a bit. He was entertained by Henry’s discomfort but simultaneously concerned because Henry _never_ hesitated to say what was on his mind. “Oh-kay…”

“Shawn...” Henry started, then stopped.

“Dementia setting in, Dad?”

“Shawn!” Henry rebuked, then shook his head, “Look son, you don’t have to…”

And then Shawn put it together. It was Frey. They couldn’t find him. They needed Shawn to give them a clue. It was police work 101. You almost always needed a statement from the victim. Why was his dad hesitating?

Ohhh. Henry didn’t want him to have to remember.

Shawn smirked, snorted, and shook his head. _“Really_?” he was silently asking. _“The man who knows how my brain works better than anyone. Does he really think there’s_ any chance _I_ haven’t _been thinking about it? Remembering every second? Really?”_

“You made me this way, Dad,” he said out loud, annoyed. “Do you really think I haven't been?” He fully expected Henry to staunchly defend himself and everything he’d taught Shawn, like he usually did.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Shawn thought he looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said. He cursed himself for not being able to look his son in the eye, even if he wasn’t sure Shawn would have known the difference.

Shawn didn't like this at all. Henry was supposed to argue with him!

The last few weeks must have been even harder on Henry than Shawn had thought. _He_ knew his dad had nothing to feel guilty about. His dad was supposed to know it, too.

Shawn wanted no part of these feelings, this vulnerability. Before his dad could say any more, Shawn closed his eyes and put his fingers firmly to his temples. _“You need a clue?”_ he asked silently. “ _I’ll_ give _you a clue.”_

Then, for the first time, he forced himself to _purposefully_ examine his captivity.

Until that moment, the images had hit him randomly, usually when he least expected them and really didn’t want them. He’d experienced the memories as a victim.

Now he was in control. Now he was using Frey’s actions against him. Now Shawn would find something that could be used to catch his kidnapper. Now he experienced the memories as an investigator.

Henry, watching Shawn closely, heard his heart monitor speed up.

“Shawn…” he cautioned. This was exactly what he’d been afraid of, that forcing Shawn to remember would hurt him.

But the opposite was happening. For the first time, Shawn didn’t feel like a victim.

His eyes popped open. “Boat!” he exclaimed, cutting off any further thoughts or feelings. “There's a boat… he’s… living? staying? on a boat... Or he _was_ …”

“How do you know?” Henry asked.

“The first time he”—deep breath—“came to... _visit…_ ” Shawn swallowed. He was surprised and pretty proud of himself that he was able to talk about it without totally freaking out. “He had some keys hanging on his belt.” His heart rate was up, but it was more from excitement than panic. “It had one of those floaty, foam keychains. There was a picture, a wave inside a circle…" Shawn frowned harder. Closed his eyes again. Gave his head a little shake. There was something else…

He tried to catch the memory skirting around the edges of his mind… He grabbed it. “And underneath the cigarette smoke, he smelled like marine fuel—not gas.”

Henry was nodding. “Ocean Alexander’s logo. That’s good work, son.”

Shawn’s eyes popped open, and he made a face at the compliment. Dad really needed to stop.

Henry just shrugged at him—“ _deal with it,”—_ and pulled out his phone.

oO0Oo

Once again, the investigation was re-energized. Because of Frey’s status as an ex-con, his lack of funds, and the fact that he’d bounced from halfway house to halfway house in the years since his release, no one had considered a boat. Boats, especially the kind that Ocean Alexander typically built, would be well outside Frey’s financial means.

Now they scoured every marina within a hundred miles of Santa Barbara.

Every Ocean Alexander boat had to be searched. That took time. They had to get warrants, they had to find the manpower in an already busy police force, and, sometimes, the police of neighboring towns. They had to convince the mostly wealthy and sometimes entitled people who owned these boats that someone might be squatting.

The search took days, and it only went that fast because Karen Vick moved heaven and earth and pulled in more than a few favors to get it done.

In the meantime, physically, Shawn had continued to improve. His shoulder had regained nearly its full range of motion. He could walk now, almost without a limp, although he still tired easily. His appetite had almost gotten back to normal, and his vision was much improved. The doctor said he could go home any time.

The idea of leaving the hospital absolutely terrified him.

oO0Oo  
TBC  
oO0Oo

A/N Thanks so much for sticking with me this far. Sorry about the shorter chapter. The last chapter was actually three chapters combined, so it makes this one seem a bit short. Please leave a review and let me know what you think. - Papaya


	6. Fear and Loathing (in Santa Barbara)

Late one afternoon, after a full day of searching boats, Henry returned to the hospital. He happened to see Shawn’s ophthalmologist was just leaving his room. Henry stopped him in the hall. “How’s Shawn doing?”

The doctor nodded. “Very well. I expect him to fully regain his rather impressive vision within a few days. He’s nearly back to 20/20 now and has only a slight sensitivity to light. He’ll continue with the sunglasses for a while, but I foresee no long-term problems.”

Henry smiled and shook the doctor’s hand, relieved. “That’s good news. Thanks.”

The Doctor nodded and continued on his way. Henry went to Shawn’s room and was quite surprised to enter and find it almost completely dark. “Shawn?” he asked softly, thinking perhaps his son had decided to take a nap.

But he was greeted by a cheerful voice. “Hey Dad.” Shawn was sitting up in bed, clearly not even considering a nap.

Henry frowned and turned on the bedside light.

Shawn flinched and squinted but didn’t reach for the sunglasses sitting on his table.

Henry picked them up and offered them to Shawn. “You want these?”

“No,” he responded simply, causing Henry’s frown to deepen.

Shawn saw it and backpedaled. “I mean they’re ugly. Gus promised to bring me some cool ones.” He wouldn’t meet Henry’s eyes.

Henry studied his son. Shawn didn’t need to sit in the dark anymore. Why would he? Did he prefer it? Was he more comfortable in the dark? Had a month in the cellar made him so accustomed to the darkness that, given a choice, he’d choose darkness over light?

Before he could consider the issue any further, the nurse came in and the alarm on Shawn’s heart monitor squawked. Shawn groaned. “Can’t we turn that off?” he complained to the nurse, an older, more motherly type.

The way he said it gave Henry the distinct impression that it wasn’t the first time it’d happened.

“Of course, sweetie,” the nurse said.

“Wait,” Henry protested. “Doesn’t he need—”

She put a hand on his arm. “No worries, hon. I’m just turning off the alarm. We can still monitor him from the nurses’ station.” She smiled conspiratorially at Shawn. “He just doesn’t want everyone to know how excited he gets to have visitors.”

Henry stared at Shawn, who deliberately avoided his gaze. “Every time?” he asked softly. Come to think of it, he’d heard Shawn’s monitor speed up when he’d come in, but he’d been distracted by the lighting issue and hadn’t given it much thought. Now, when the nurse came in, his heart had begun to pound even faster, causing the alarm.

“No!” Shawn protested. “It’s just… I…” 

“He’s happy to see you! He gets excited about everyone except that Guster.” The nurse interrupted, then turned to Shawn. “Now you buzz if you need anything, love.” And she left.

Henry looked at Shawn. His son was so terrified every time someone entered his room that his heart pounded fast enough to set off the alarm.

Shawn picked at his blanket, hating the scrutiny. First, Henry had found him sitting in the dark. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the light; it was just easier. He refused to examine the reasons why he found the darkness comforting.

And now this.

“It’s not that. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s just mad I don’t get excited about _her…_ Now, Nurse _Peyton_ on the other hand… Let me tell you...” He tried to change the subject, but it was too late.

Henry sighed. He’d thought Shawn was getting better, but if he was still so terrified, they _had_ to find Frey and get him safely behind bars.

From then on, Henry spent the nights sleeping on a cot in Shawn’s room. That was when he learned about the nightmares. He was there every night when Shawn would wake, trembling and drenched in sweat.

They needed to catch Frey.

oO0Oo

They kept searching the boats.

But they didn’t find anything.

Once again, Frey had eluded them. It was certain, because of Shawn’s ‘vision,’ that Frey had once been on a boat. But he had apparently moved on.

Their failure caused a severe setback in Shawn’s recovery.

oO0Oo

Shawn couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the relative safety of the hospital and came up with excuse after excuse as to why he needed to stay.

And try as he might, he couldn’t come up with any more clues as to where Frey might be hiding.

He wanted so badly to be normal again, but it seemed, as long as Frey was still on the loose, that wasn’t going to happen. Frey had a power over Shawn no one could explain. That power kept Shawn in a prison from which no one could free him.

oO0Oo

Henry couldn’t help but think of how Karen had forced him to walk through the case when they couldn’t find Shawn. It was how they’d finally found him. He’d wondered then if he’d ever do it with his son again.

It was time. He knew it would be hard on Shawn, but he had to do it. He pulled a chair to Shawn’s bedside and sat down. “Close your eyes.”

Shawn scowled. _“Dad!_ No! Don’t you have some... fish that need gutting? It’s not even your turn to babysit me. Jules is supposed to be next!”

Henry hated the idea that Shawn was comfortable with the fact that he needed a babysitter. He forced himself to be harsh even though it pained him. “Why? Your heart monitor not getting enough exercise?” He pointed at the machine in question, which was still spiking.

“Dad, I told you that’s just for pretty girls... and annoying fathers. I don’t—”

“Close your eyes.”

“No.”

“Close your eyes.”

“No!”

“Shawn... We need more,” he confessed, his voice a tiny bit more gentle.

“Yeah… well… That’s… that’s just…” Shawn was desperately trying to come up with something to change his dad’s mind.

But Henry wasn’t having any of it. He began. “How many times did he show up?”

“Four!” Shawn answered angrily, his eyes still open in an act of rebellion. It angered and frustrated him that his dad was right.

He had _finally_ been getting good at just _not thinking about it,_ ignoring the memories when they popped up unbidden. But now?

They both hated doing it—reliving the experience—but it was the only way they were going to find Frey.

_“Four?”_ Henry thought. “ _Only four? How did you survive?”_

“He’d bring water, usually a six pack of plastic bottles.” Shawn finally gave in and closed his eyes. “Sometimes he’d include one or two of those horrible granola bars that taste like cardboard.” He _hated_ the idea of walking his _dad_ through the memories. He consoled himself with the thought that there was _no way_ he would tell him _everything._

Henry watched his son silently. He could tell from the various expressions that were crossing Shawn’s face that he was processing the memories. He sat back a bit and let him work.

Shawn had tried to escape, and, every time, Frey had punished him for it. He’d tried everything he could think of. He had used everything Henry had ever taught him. He’d tried to trip Frey coming down the stairs. He’d taken apart the shelves, broken off a sharp splinter of wood. Frey had taken it from him with little effort. He’d broken all his nails trying to dig a hole at the bottom of the stairs. The plan was that it would cause Frey to stumble in the darkness, maybe even fall and break his neck... He’d tried everything. Nothing ever worked. All he’d ever succeeded in doing was making Frey angry.

Henry wasn’t going to hear about any of _that._

But he knew he had to remember, and to analyze the memories. It was the only way to find a clue. “I learned pretty quick to make the water last as long as I could. Once, I tried to save them. They were heavy. I thought I could use them… as a weapon… the next time he showed up… But… I… I couldn’t.” He’d gotten too thirsty.

Usually, Frey would take one of the bottles and drink it in one shot, letting water spill over his chin as Shawn watched, unconsciously licking dry, chapped lips. Then he would take the rest of the pack and throw it at him. Five bottles Shawn had to ration the best he could, not knowing when—or even if—Frey would return.

Henry listened silently, taking notes, and trying not to make it worse for his son. He just let him say whatever came to mind.

“After that first time, there was nothing on him—no more keys, nothing,” Shawn droned, eyes now closed, one finger pressed to his temple. “Second time, black t-shirt—knock-off Abercrombie and Fitch, if you want to know—jeans…” Shawn tilted his head; at least he’d found a way to make it a little bit funny. His dad wasn’t amused. “Pretty sure the jeans were a knock-off too... Boat shoes... I always think boat shoes should look like boats… Nothing in his pockets. Still smelled of cigarettes and marine fuel…” Shawn swallowed a few times. It would have helped if his dad could have forced out a micro-chuckle. “Third time, plaid button down, same jeans, boots. He didn’t say anything that time, but he was pissed. He… he...” Shawn had to stop and swallow.

That was the time Frey had found him up by the door, trying to get out. He’d been furious. He’d pushed Shawn down the stairs and beaten him, finishing up with that kick to the head… “I couldn’t _see_ him… after that.”

Waking up after that had been the worst; his lowest point. He’d already been dealing with the agony in his shoulder and the useless arm that went with it, but now he couldn’t walk—and, even worse, he couldn’t see. He remembered waking up and thinking it must be night. He’d gotten very familiar with the amount of light that came in around the door. But this had been different. It wasn’t _just_ dark.

He’d been in denial for quite a while until he finally had to accept the fact that he was blind. It was at that moment that he’d given up. He’d begun to believe he would never be rescued. Never see the light of day again.

He’d believed he would die in that hole.

Henry closed his eyes.

Shawn doggedly continued, almost whispering. “The last time was day twenty-six. I didn’t know why he said it. ‘It’s day twenty- _six,_ kid,’ he said. ‘Enjoy it while you can.’” There was a pause. “He didn’t bring any water that time.” Shawn’s breathing hitched.

Henry shook his head. There was no point to this. Shawn was right; there was nothing else, no clue as to Frey’s whereabouts. He reached out and laid a hand on Shawn’s arm.

Shawn nearly jumped out of bed.

“Shh, kid,” Henry soothed. “I’m sorry. It’s okay. This guy knew what he was doing. He was careful.”

They both fell silent.

Henry was thinking about how horrible Shawn’s captivity had been. He knew it was even worse than Shawn was letting on.

But Shawn was still thinking about the case. He couldn’t bear to think about his captivity, so he concentrated on Frey. “What about the original case file?”

Henry frowned at him.

“You said it wasn’t your case; you weren’t even supposed to be there… Can I see _that_ file?” Shawn suspected he was grasping at straws, but he had to do _something._ He needed more information.

Henry frowned. He couldn’t see what possible good it would do, but, on the other hand, it couldn’t hurt. He nodded. “I’ll get it to you as soon as I can.” Henry glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Unless you want to come to the station?”

Shawn knew that tactic. Henry was testing him. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t help it. He tried not to react, but he could make out Henry watching his heart monitor which was showing quite clearly that his heart was pounding in fear at the mere thought of leaving the hospital.

Henry let the matter drop. “I’ll go get it now. Juliet will be here soon?”

Shawn just nodded, staring at the foot of his bed. “I’ll be okay until she gets here.”

He was glad when Henry left.

Henry paused outside Shawn’s room. Frey was no mastermind. How was it possible that he still eluded them? At that moment, the guilt was almost unbearable.

Shawn’s tormentor was still out there, still free.

oO0Oo

It was almost an hour later when Buzz arrived. He brought Shawn the file. He explained that Juliet wouldn’t be there for a while yet; she and Lassiter had caught a break in one of their other cases and were out, hopefully making an arrest. He stayed and visited for a while, but when Francine called and asked when he would be home, Shawn told him to go. He was impatient to dig into the file on his lap.

As soon as Buzz was gone, he put on his ridiculous Mr. Magoo glasses that allowed him to read the smaller print. He opened the file and spread it out on his blanket, studying every page.

There really wasn’t much to discover. It had been a clean arrest. His dad and the lead officer on the case, Bill “Smitty” Smith, had caught Frey in the act and arrested him. The only thing remotely interesting about the case was that it had been his dad’s testimony, not Smitty’s, that had put Frey away. He’d have to ask his dad why that was. Normally, the officer in charge would have that responsibility. He supposed it explained why Frey went after Henry and not Smitty. But, other than that, it was a basic, straightforward case.

There was _something_ about the file that bugged him though. He went through it twice more, reorganizing the papers in different piles, trying to put a finger on what was bothering him.

He was concentrating so hard on the file that he barely noticed when a nurse came in and moved to check the chart at the foot of his bed. His heart monitor, for once, didn’t freak out.

It wasn’t until he absently raised a hand, rubbing his mouth in frustration that he figured out the problem with the file. It was the papers themselves, not what was written on them. The pages _Smitty_ had written had a faint odor. A very familiar odor. The odor of a very specific brand of cigarette.

Then his blood ran cold because he suddenly realized that the papers on his lap weren’t the _only_ source of that smell.

The ‘nurse’ who had come in _also_ smelled like Frey’s cigarettes.

His eyes widened. He tried to stealthily reach for his buzzer. He looked up.

It was Frey. He was wearing a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck, and he had a silenced pistol pointed at Shawn’s heart.

Shawn froze, his hand still inches away from the buzzer. The room darkened and disappeared. He was back in the cellar. Absolutely terrified, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t shout, he couldn’t even breathe.

He knew he was about to die.

“I promised Spencer I would kill his son. And I will,” said Frey calmly. “He deserves it… He just got you for a few extra days, that’s all. I hope he made the most of it.”

And he straightened his arm and fired.

Shawn watched him pocket the pistol and leave. He was surprised he was awake. He was even more surprised that his terror had finally left him.

He knew he’d been shot—the red stain spreading on his chest was hard to miss—but it didn’t hurt. And he wasn’t afraid.

He supposed that was because his ordeal was finally over.

It vaguely registered that the machines in his room were going crazy, but he just laid there and listened to the rhythmic sound of his blood dripping on the floor.

oO0Oo  
TBC…  
oO0Oo

A/N How’s that for a cliffhanger?   
Don’t worry, I won’t keep you waiting long.   
And for those of you who happen on to this story months from now, I won’t keep you waiting at all. In fact, what are you waiting for? Click the ‘Next’ button! Shawn’s waiting!


	7. In the Heat of the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all need a distraction from reality right now, so I'm posting this chapter early. Enjoy!

The medical staff rushed to Shawn’s room. They didn’t make it before he flatlined.

No one noticed Frey leaving.

A Code Blue was called. Nurse Peyton began compressions, forcing his heart to beat. She kept it beating long enough to get him into surgery.

oO0Oo

There was a very different atmosphere at the station. Lassiter, O’Hara, and Henry all sat at their desks. Gus had gone home not fifteen minutes before. He had finally accepted that there just wasn’t anything for him to do. He planned on visiting Shawn before his route the next morning. Maybe he could finally convince him to go home; Shawn couldn’t stay at the hospital forever.

The overall mood in the station was somber. Both detectives had paperwork to fill out after solving their most recent case, but all they could think about was how they had failed Shawn.

Finally, Henry groaned, startling O’Hara out of her reverie and causing Lassiter to blink at him. He stood and rubbed his neck. “I’m gonna head out,” he told them. He wasn’t looking forward to another long night on the cot in Shawn’s room; it was hard to sleep when you were just waiting for another nightmare. Maybe he could talk Shawn into staying at his place for a while. He’d have to leave the hospital sooner or later; this couldn’t go on forever. The only reason Henry had tolerated it this long was because of the guilt he felt.

Would they _ever_ catch Frey? Tonight, he doubted.

He was reaching for his coat when his phone rang. He frowned when he saw it was the hospital calling. “Spencer…” he answered.

Lassiter and O’Hara saw his slumped shoulders suddenly tense.

 _“What?”_ he shouted, then listened briefly. “I’m on my way.” And he ran.

 _“Spencer!”_ Lassiter shouted after him.

Henry paused just long enough to turn and tell them, “Shawn’s been shot.” And then he was gone.

oO0Oo

When Henry reached the hospital, he was in a fury. “How could this happen?” he shouted at the hapless nurse who had the misfortune to be the first one he met on Shawn’s wing.

“Security will meet with you, sir,” she had been told to tell him.

 _“Where are they?”_ he shouted.

She only pointed.

oO0Oo

When Lassiter and O’Hara arrived on his heels, he was already coming out of the security office.

“We got him,” he told them grimly. “Frey is clearly visible on the cameras in the halls, and we got him getting into a car outside.”

Lassiter was already on his phone, calling for a BOLO. He held out his hand for the paper Henry was holding. As he expected it contained a license plate and a description of the car.

“What about Shawn?” Juliet asked.

Henry grimaced. “He’s in surgery. They couldn’t tell me anything yet, but it can’t be good. He was lying in a bed! Frey just waltzed in here—” He had to stop himself.

How could this have happened? How could _he_ have let this happen? All of them, even Shawn, had assumed Frey was on the run. It had never occurred to any of them that he was still bent on revenge. Henry should have known. Just having someone sit with Shawn obviously wasn't enough. He should have had Shawn under 24-hour guard.

How could this happen?

He realized he was still staring at Juliet.

Then Gus came in behind him. “How did this happen?” he asked breathlessly. Henry had called him on the way over and told him what had happened, but he still couldn’t process it.

Henry stopped next to him and grabbed his upper arm. “Stay here. We’re going after Frey.”

“But—”

“Gus, the only way that I can not be here for Shawn is if I know that you are.” *

Gus nodded, and then Henry and the detectives were gone.

oO0Oo

Several hours later, Henry returned alone. He found Gus slumped in a hard plastic chair, sound asleep.

He gently shook his shoulder. “Gus?”

Gus immediately shot up. “Shawn!” Then he saw that he was alone except for Henry. “Sorry.”

“Have you heard anything?” Henry asked.

Gus glanced at his watch. “A nurse came out about an hour ago to say he was holding his own.”

Henry sat back in the chair next to him and prepared to wait. “He was a sitting duck,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “It’s not like he could have missed.”

“Frey?”

Henry closed his eyes and looked absolutely defeated. “He did it again, Gus. The car was stolen. He ditched it and disappeared.” Then he sat up and asked, despair clear in his voice, “How can this one man be better than all of us?”

Gus had no answer to give him.

oO0Oo

It wasn’t much later when they were notified that Shawn was now in intensive care and the doctor would be out soon.

When the doctor arrived, they stood, and she shook their hands. “I’m Doctor Tran. I’m a cardio-pulmonary specialist. I was called in because of the nature of Shawn’s injury.”

Putting things together, Henry completed the thought. “He was shot in the chest.”

Doctor Tran nodded. “The good news is the bullet missed his heart and his spine completely. It entered near the bottom of his ribcage, traveled upward, and lodged against his scapula. It did quite a bit of damage to his left lung.”

Henry put a hand on Gus’s shoulder.

“Now, we were able to repair the damage, but he has a long recovery ahead of him. That being said, I can tell you that, barring any complications, he should make a full recovery. But he’ll need a lot of rest and quiet.”

Both men nodded.

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Gus quietly.

“Thank you... for saving my son’s life,” Henry told her very sincerely.

“You’re welcome,” came the response, just as sincerely, and then she left.

Henry had been around violent crime long enough to know that medical personnel _never_ tell the family the whole story. The loved ones certainly didn’t need to hear how many times the patient’s heart had stopped, how much blood they’d lost, or just how close they’d come to dying. They needed to hear how their loved one was doing currently and how they were expected to fare in the future.

Seeing the exhaustion in the doctor’s eyes, Henry didn’t need to be told. He knew it had been close. 

After the doctor left, a nurse came in to tell them they could see Shawn, one at a time, for five minutes each. Because of his compromised immune system, if they were to visit they would have to take nearly the same precautions as a surgeon. They should also know he wouldn’t be awake for quite some time.

When Henry entered Shawn’s ward, he let the door close behind him and then leaned against it. He gazed at his son, unconscious, intubated, a pump mechanically forcing air into his lungs. He realized he really hated the sound of a heart monitor. But it was beeping evenly and steadily, and, for that, he was grateful.

He slowly walked up to the bedside and carefully took Shawn’s hand in his. “I’m sorry, son.” He spoke quietly, mindful that the nurses who were monitoring Shawn’s condition 24/7 could hear him. “I should never have let this happen.”

Then he frowned because Shawn shifted in his sleep a tiny bit and his heart rate increased. 

Henry wasn’t surprised when the nurse gently ushered him out.

The same thing happened during Gus's visit. He wasn’t allowed to stay the full five minutes either.

oO0Oo

In the morning, they were thankful to be informed that Shawn had had a quiet night. So far, there was no sign of any infection—a factor they were monitoring even more closely than they usually would. His condition was officially upgraded from critical to critical-but-stable.

Henry and Gus spent the day in the waiting room, but several friends came and went throughout the day.

When Lassiter and Juliet arrived, Henry looked at them, the question clear on his face.

Lassiter just shook his head, and Juliet looked apologetic. There were no new leads on Frey.

The odd thing was that every time someone was allowed to visit Shawn, even though he was unconscious, he became agitated and his levels became unstable.

The doctor decided it would be best if Shawn had no visitors until he had been upgraded from critical. It just wasn’t worth the risk.

“Why’s he doing that?” Gus asked quietly after the doctor left.

“Restricting visitors?” Lassiter clarified. “It’s not unusual in cases like these.”

But Gus shook his head. “Not the doctor. _Shawn._ Why’s he freaking out whenever one of us visits?”

Lassiter was tempted to roll his eyes, but Henry caught what Gus was getting at. “It’s almost as if…”

Gus finished the thought. “It’s almost as if he has something to tell us.”

Gus had plenty of experience with just how annoying Shawn could be when he had something he needed to say and couldn’t say it. 

Henry met Gus’s gaze, “What if he saw something?”

“It killed him that he couldn’t give us any other clues as to where Frey was hiding last time. What if he knows something now?”

“And he can’t tell us,” Henry finished.

Now Lassiter did roll his eyes. “The man is unconscious! I’m sorry, Henry, but I do not believe your son has any superpowers. He’s just dreaming—or whatever people do when they are completely out of it.” He paused when O’Hara glared at him. He backpedaled. “Just be glad his condition is improving and leave it at that.”

But the corner of Henry’s mouth had curled up a tiny bit. He turned to a passing nurse, “Could you please tell Dr. Tran we’d like to see her at her earliest convenience?”

oO0Oo

It hadn’t been easy to get the doctor to understand that what Shawn really needed was to wake up and talk to them.

Because of his compromised immune system, Tran declared it was just too dangerous. Even the slightest infection could quickly turn fatal. Shawn needed to rest and recover. The doctor flatly refused to even consider further visitors until Shawn’s condition had improved from critical to serious.

That night, Dr. Tran stopped by the waiting room after checking on Shawn. “I know you are eager to speak with Shawn, so I wanted to let you know he is doing _far_ better than I’d hoped. He remains unconscious, but I had expected his recovery to take much longer. If he has a good night, I plan on upgrading him and moving him to a private room in the morning.”

“And then we can speak with him?” Gus asked hopefully, gently reminding the doctor of their previous conversation.

She nodded. “I can’t make any promises, but, if things continue as they are, Shawn should wake soon. And, yes, once his condition is upgraded, he will be allowed limited visitors.”

Both Henry and Gus went home that night and slept better than they had in a very long time.

oO0Oo

When they arrived in the morning, they found that Shawn had already been moved from intensive care. His condition had been upgraded, and the doctor was currently in with him to remove his breathing tube.

Gus and Henry couldn’t sit.

It seemed like ages before the doctor came out to see them.

“Shawn continues to surprise me,” the doctor greeted them. “Having seen his condition Thursday night, there’s no way I would have believed I would be removing his breathing tube already. He’s on supplemental oxygen, and, so far, he’s holding his own. In fact, he already asked to talk to you.”

Henry didn’t respond. He clapped the doctor on the shoulder and went to see his son, Gus on his heels.

“Wait.” The doctor stopped them in their tracks. “I understand how eager you are, but Shawn is far from out of danger. Only one of you may visit, and you must take all the previous precautions. Above all, we must protect Shawn.”

Henry changed as quickly as he could, but Shawn was awake and waiting for him.

“Hey,” he whispered, sending a one-fingered wave in his dad’s direction.

Henry pulled up a chair. “What’ve you got?” he asked.

Shawn was weak. It was exhausting to speak, and every inhale was clearly painful, but he’d finally gotten what he wanted. “Frey…”

“What did you see?”

“Boat…” he said, and Henry felt a twinge of doubt. The boat keychain clue had led nowhere.

But Shawn seemingly read his mind. “No…” He tried to swallow.

Henry reached for the cup of ice chips on the bedside table and fed him some.

“It IS a boat,” he insisted once the ice had soothed his throat a little, “but dry…” He shook his head slightly. “Storage...” Shawn grimaced, frustrated. There was so much he needed to say, and it was so hard to get any of it out.

Henry put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, kid. Take your time. We’ve got all day.”

Shawn shook his head. They really didn’t. “Storage yard... on Vista… Key card.” 

He had seen the keychain that had once again been clipped to Frey’s belt. The floaty keychain had been there still, but a key card had been added. It had the name of a storage facility and its address printed right on the front. There had also been some truck keys.

“Truck keys— _big_ truck—pull it.” More ice chips, then Shawn paused just to breathe. “Smelled diesel this time… not marine…” Then Shawn grabbed Henry’s arm. “Got tipped off… every time…”

Henry noticed that Shawn’s oxygen levels were falling. “Breathe, Shawn,” Henry instructed. “Just breathe.”

But now that Shawn had it almost out, he struggled to continue. “Smitty… was…” He looked desperately into Henry’s eyes, knowing he was telling him the last thing any police officer wants to hear. “Dirty.”

Henry scowled. “Are you absolutely sure, son?”

Shawn nodded as the oxygen monitor began to beep frantically.

“No…” Henry sighed.

But Shawn, black spots starting to cloud his vision, met Henry’s eyes earnestly and nodded once more. “Get him… Dad… _Please…”_

Henry nodded, squeezing Shawn’s shoulder gently. “I will,” he promised.

Then Henry did something he knew he shouldn’t. He’d brought his back-up weapon in with him. He held it where Shawn would see it but the nurses couldn’t.

Shawn frowned, not liking it one bit.

“I know you don’t like it, but I am not leaving you defenseless again.” He pointed at the door. “And there will be someone guarding your room 24/7.” 

He slid the pistol into the drawer next to the bed. “It’s there if you need it.” He wasn’t at all sure that his son was strong enough, at the moment, to even lift it, but he had to do _something_.

Then the nurse was there, urging him out.

Henry stood and leaned over Shawn, meeting the eyes that struggled to remain open. “We’ll get him, son.”

oO0Oo

*shout-out to Shawn in “Mr. Yin Presents” - _'The only way I can not be there for Juliet is if I know that you are.'_  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N All the Chapter Titles are from TV shows and movies that aired in the 80s. Any suggestions for a title for the last chapter?


	8. Chapter 8

Gus stayed with Shawn while Henry headed to the storage yard. He called Lassiter on the way.

Frey was the priority. They looked for Smitty at the station, but he was off duty. A few officers were assigned the task of locating him and bringing him in.

The call went out. The storage yard was surrounded. Every officer of the SBPD who could possibly be there had showed up.

Vick, Lassiter, O’Hara, and Henry gathered around the hood of Lassiter’s car to plan. Soon they were ready. Tensions were running high.

Henry pulled his pistol, checked and loaded it.

Lassiter saw him. “Chief.” There was no way he was letting Spencer be part of the actual arrest, but he knew _he_ could never stop the man.

Karen agreed. She put a gentle hand on Henry’s arm and felt the tense muscle there. “Henry.”

He growled. “You’re not keeping me out of this, Karen.”

She squeezed his arm gently. “I understand. I can only imagine what I would feel if the man in there had hurt Iris.”

At that, at least Henry met her gaze.

“Can you honestly tell me you are in full control of your emotions and prepared to act as an officer of the law right now?” she asked quietly. “I know I wouldn’t be.”

The arm under her grasp relaxed a fraction.

“Let them handle it, Henry, please. For Shawn’s sake.” She left the whole lecture about needing a clean arrest to ensure a conviction unsaid.

He took a breath, then purposefully cleared and holstered his weapon. He glared at Lassiter and O’Hara, silently demanding their promise of results.

Lassiter met his gaze evenly and nodded once. There was no way Frey was getting away. Not this time.

They moved in.

Henry rubbed a hand over his scalp and walked away. The wait was already killing him. He needed some space to breathe. He walked out of the yard.

As he passed the gate house, he felt a pistol pressed to the back of his head and heard a growl.

“Make a noise, and you die.”

Then he felt his own weapon pulled from its holster, and he heard it clatter to the ground and get kicked away into the bushes.

oO0Oo

Surprisingly, it wasn’t Frey who had taken Henry captive; it was Smitty. He forced Henry to get into a nearby car and drive them away from the storage yard. When they’d travelled a decent distance, he had him pull over and park at the side of the road.

“Smitty, what are you _doing?”_ Henry asked.

Smitty shook his head, his gun still pointed at Henry, “I know this doesn’t end well for me. I can’t control Frey anymore… I never could.”

Henry watched for any possible opening, a distraction, some way to disarm the man, but the gun never wavered.

“I just wanted to explain… This was never supposed to happen.”

“It never is!” Henry chided. “This is what happens when you work with criminals.”

Smith frowned and shook his head. “You don’t get it! I was never a good cop. Never. It was just so much easier to let things slide. Then I got a reputation… My partner eventually figured it out, but by then we were friends… Our wives were friends… He couldn’t turn me in. He transferred out. That’s why you were there that day. He put in his request and then called in sick until it came through. I was supposed to let Frey go as usual that day, but you were there, all gung-ho and perfect.” He spit the words.

Smitty continued, “I tried to screw up the investigation, but you were too good. Frey got convicted. His kid got killed. Then you moved away, and I figured that was it. It was over. When Frey got out, he moved away too. I figured I was in the clear. I even tried to clean up my act… But then you moved back.” He managed to say the words as if everything was Henry’s fault.

“When Frey heard your kid was back in town and you two were working together? He lost it! He moved back dead-set on giving you all the pain you had given him. It took a while for him to plan it and set it all up, but then he took your kid. He forced me to help him, keep him up on the investigation, or he would rat me out. All I did was warn him when you were coming for him.” He grinned when he saw Henry’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, I tipped him off _this time_ too. He’s not at the storage yard. They’ll just find an empty boat… again.”

Henry’s heart stopped when he realized Frey was most likely headed to the hospital.

“You should have seen him when he heard Shawn survi—” Smith never finished his sentence.

Henry made his move. He struck out, knocking Smith’s gun hand to the side. The gun went off. Henry felt the bullet whiz past his ear as the window behind him shattered. They struggled for a moment, but Henry was focused on only one thing. He managed to get the door behind Smith open. He shoved him out onto the pavement, threw the car into gear, and peeled out.

He had to get to Shawn before Frey did. He had to.

The rear window shattered as Smith fired after him. He ducked and swerved around a corner.

Belatedly, he fumbled for his phone.

Lassiter answered in a frustrated growl. _“Frey’s not her—”_

“He’s at the hospital. Smitty tipped him off. Get there. Now.” He tossed the phone onto the seat beside him and pushed the accelerator to the floor.

oO0Oo

When he reached the hospital, Henry bumped over the curb, leaped out of the car, and ran. He took the stairs two at a time up to Shawn’s floor and burst through the door. He immediately spotted Frey coming out of a storage room in a white coat. He was just draping a stethoscope around his neck. When he saw Henry, he went for his gun.

Henry got to him before he could aim it, and two furious fathers clashed, one bent on revenge, the other on protection.

Henry knew Frey was likely the better fighter, so he focused on simply delaying and disarming him. He didn’t _have_ to beat him. All he had to do was keep him occupied until backup arrived.

Frey was focused on taking Henry out. He needed to get to Shawn, and Henry was an obstacle to his goal. The two men struggled for control of the pistol.

Henry was beginning to realize that Frey might be stronger; at the very least, he had a crazed hatred on his side. The pistol slowly began to turn toward Henry.

He saw it, but it didn’t really matter as long as he could keep Shawn safe…

Frey suddenly twisted. Henry lost his grip on the gun. He heard two shots.

Frey went limp and fell.

Henry looked up to see Shawn standing at the far end of the hall in his hospital gown, pointing Henry’s pistol at Frey.

Their eyes met.

Shawn’s gun hand dropped to his side. His shoulders slumped. His knees gave out, and he collapsed.

Lassiter and O’Hara charged through the door behind Henry and took in the scene before them. They saw Gus come out of the room behind Shawn just in time to catch him as he crumpled.

The entire altercation had lasted less than a minute.

The hallway filled with people.

Henry still stared at Shawn now being surrounded by medical personnel.

_"Where's Dobson?"_ Lassiter shouted.

Henry knew Dobson was the officer assigned to guard Shawn's room. "Check the storage room," he said, not taking his eyes off Shawn.

Juliet bent and checked Frey for a pulse just as the nurses reached him. "He's alive."

Frey was quickly taken for treatment, and Henry was glad the criminal would live to see trial. He smiled a little, proud of his son. The two men had been struggling. Shawn had fired, twice, from the other end of the hall, a good fifty feet away, missed Henry, hit Frey, and didn't kill him.

Henry was thankful to see Shawn being helped, not carried, back into his room. He was mostly moving under his own power.

"He's just unconscious," came Lassiter's voice from the storage room. "Looks like Frey hit him over the head."

The doctors had yet another patient to treat.

It was finally over.

oO0Oo

Two days later Henry was approaching Shawn’s hospital room. He paused at the sound he heard coming from inside.

It was laughter. He could hear Shawn’s laugh mixed with others’, and he felt sudden tears burn. He quickly blinked them away, took a deep breath, and just relished the fact that it was over.

Shawn was being released into his care today.

Taking Frey down was all the cure Shawn needed. Since that day, his son had been driving the hospital staff crazy with his desire to go home. His doctor finally relented as long as Shawn stayed at his father’s house and severely limited his activities.

Shawn had also completely embraced the idea of his limited immunity and switched back and forth between begging his dad to build him a bubble and _Lethal Weapon_ quotes regarding the diplomatic variety.

Henry leaned against the wall outside and listened to the conversation inside. It seemed Nurse Peyton was regaling the others with a story.

“So I’m on my way to Shawn’s room, right? I needed to get him up and walking around—important after surgery, you know—and I’m thinking it’s not going to be easy to get this guy out of bed. But what do I see? Shawn, coming out of his room on his own—and he’s got a gun! I couldn’t believe my eyes! It was totally like something from a movie! Shawn was such a superhero.”

Henry shook his head. The last thing his idiot son needed was an ego stroking like he was getting at the moment, but he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt.

There was another burst of laughter from inside as he heard Gus and Juliet’s voices protesting Peyton’s rosy descriptions.

Henry smiled to himself, turned, and slowly walked away. He had planned on taking Shawn home himself, but, under the circumstances, maybe it would be better if Gus and Juliet brought him over. They were having such a good time he couldn’t interrupt.

Frey’s wounds were not serious. Shawn had aimed to disable not kill. It was just another one of Shawn’s secrets that he always hit what he aimed at. Frey had already been transferred to the prison hospital where he would stay until trial, and then he would be imprisoned for aggravated assault, kidnapping, first- _and_ second-degree attempted murder. He would be locked up for a long time. Smitty, too, would face trial and inevitably be convicted. The evidence against him was overwhelming.

oO0Oo

When the laughter had finally died down, Peyton brought out the clipboard that contained Shawn’s discharge papers. She explained all the instructions and limitations in detail, but, of course, Gus was the only one who really paid attention. Shawn signed them, and Gus collected them.

Juliet made her excuses. As much as she had enjoyed her visit, she really needed to get back to the station. There was a lot of paperwork to fill out, and she was going to personally ensure that every ‘i’ was dotted and every ‘t’ was crossed. Frey was not going to get off on some stupid technicality.

She smiled at Shawn. “I’m really glad you’re okay.” And then she left so they could get packed up.

Gus tossed Shawn’s few belongings into the overnight bag he’d brought while Shawn got dressed. Peyton retrieved the wheelchair from the hall.

Finally they were ready to go. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Shawn, but I really hope I don’t see you any time soon.” She smiled.

Shawn smiled back and tried to come up with something witty, but he found himself thinking about a certain blonde detective instead.

“Thanks for everything, Peyton,” Gus told her politely and pushed his buddy out the door and down the hall to the elevators.

Shawn was busy looking at everything as they traveled through the parts of the building that had become all too familiar to his friends, but which he himself had never seen. And then they were out in the sunshine.

Shawn would have grabbed the wheels to stop his forward travel, but he didn’t have to. Gus knew. He set the breaks on the chair.

Shawn closed his eyes and turned his face upward toward the sun. He was okay. He was normal again. His sight was back. His fear was gone. He still tired easily, but that wouldn’t last. A few days of his dad’s cooking, sleeping in his old bedroom, and he’d be back to 100%.

“Hey, Gus?” he asked softly. “You know what today is?”

“Yeah, Shawn,” Gus responded quietly, but Shawn could hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah, I do.”

It was the twenty-seventh day since they’d rescued Shawn from the cellar, and somehow it felt right. It felt complete.

Shawn opened his eyes, stood up, and walked the last few steps to the Blueberry.

“Shotgun!”

oO0Oo  
 **End  
** oO0Oo

Thanks for sticking with me to the end. Please leave a review if you have a moment.  
Thanks! Papaya


End file.
